Teresa
by bugsfic
Summary: When the Blakes arrive in London on their honeymoon, old friend Mattie O'Brien asks them to investigate a murder on the streets of Poplar. In the course of the investigation, Lucien confronts ghosts from his past and Jean faces her recent loss of faith.:::A Doctor Blake Mysteries story set in the Call the Midwife Universe of May 1961.
1. Chapter 1

"This thing kills my passion," he says while slipping the wimple from her head.

"It serves the purpose," she murmurs, unbuttoning her habit's collar. "No one pays any attention to a nun travelling at night in Poplar."

"Can't have you taken for a prossie," should have been a gentle joke, but it's too close to the truth, and her kiss is hard and biting.

"Don't mark me now," he warns, even as his greedy hands push up the skirt, not waiting for her to take it off.

"Why not?" she hisses, "you're mine. All mine." To brand him, she turns her nails into his bared back.

In the remote shed at the end of a rubble-filled lane, their scrabbling and whimpers sounds like scurrying rats echoing in the fog and gloom of the night.

* * *

Faint footfall tap on the polished corridor floor, answered by a door cracking to emit a beam of light.

"Quick." Whispered urgency.

Yes, quick. Into the tiny box room, lips meeting, hands over clothing, then under. Nesting her nose into her love's neck, breathing deep of the familiar scent—floral perfume, strong carbolic soap, lavender from the laundry powder on her uniform. Her own dressing gown slipping open, to have her skin pimple in the chill and be warmed by stroking fingers.

She gasps. "Must be quiet," hisses back at her and she's held away.

But she reaches back. "I can't wait until I move into Nonnatus House. When we see each other every day."

Step away to stand as a dark silhouette against the narrow window.

"Pats?"

"It'll be alright. I'm taking care of things. We'll be together soon."

"Yes, yes—" Closing the distance, picking free the buttons down the front of her uniform. Under that practical wrinkled cotton, the satin sheen of her corset glistened.

"You are so beautiful."

A mistake. Compliments are never welcome; always make her muscles tense. A beautiful woman who sees something very different when she looks in the mirror. No more words—

Kisses along her collarbone, seeking the flush of her skin under the corset. Yes, they will always hide their heat, keep it shielded from the outside world.

When her mouth finds a nipple, the cry is ragged and needy, loud in the slumbering building. Together, they make shushing noises, an automatic reaction. Silence. Quiet. Darkness. Shadows.

* * *

The light snapping off and plunging the room to darkness is the start, not the end of the evening.

"Bloody hell, the bed's moving."

Her giggle fills the air. "I think it's us, not the bed. Haven't got our land legs back yet."

"You'd best lash yourself to the mast," he gasps. His chuckles shake the mattress like a raft shifting under them, caught on a current. With a quick roll, he lifts her above him, her curls swinging. "Hang on tight."

"I tell you, this bed is moving," she insists, clutching his shoulders for purchase.

"We'll just ride this storm out, shall we?"

Their combined laughter swirls in the darkness, caught in the hotel room's sheer curtains, pale as the fog billowing outside.

* * *

The lap of the river echoes her rapid footfall. After all these delays, she needs to get back before the nosy old bats checked her room and see she's not there. Not fearful in the dark streets—no one bothered a nun. When a shadow falls across her path, she isn't afraid, just impatient.

"You again!" she barks. "What do you want?"

Her answer is a sharp blow with a broken brick to her temple. She settles silent, a gentle fluttering of black and white wings, into a growing puddle of red on the glistening cobblestones. Her features stills in an expression of ecstasy and wonder.

* * *

The table was full at Nonnatus House, with every chair which could possibly fit around it occupied by nuns, nurses, and their guests. For the special occasion, dinner was tinned ham and boiled tongue, peeled potatoes and salad, with a big bowl of peaches and evaporated milk for pudding. But the offerings appeared so pale compared to the glowing faces of Dr and Mrs Blake. They were Australian, which meant not just their skin alight with bright sunlight of their homeland, but they had shining smiles, endless laughs, widespread arms.

The residents surreptitiously gathered their opinions of these visitors while passing the meal's dishes and jugs of water round. Mathilda O'Brien, the St. Bart's Hospital almoner and another Australian in their midst, had invited her friends to volunteer with patients for a week. But it was all so curious. Who would willingly come to Poplar whilst on their honeymoon tour from halfway around the world?

"When you've sailed so very far from—" fussed Sister Winifred. She waved her hand. "Down under." She smiled confusedly. "Come up from down under?"

Jean Blake, who was the bride despite her middle age, nodded with encouragement, even as her observant gaze swept over the nuns in avid curiosity.

"Poplar is hardly a popular honeymoon destination," pointed out Patrick Turner.

His own wife, Shelagh, squeezed his hand. "But remember, darling, we started our honeymoon here. It was lovely." Patrick returned the pressure of her touch.

Interrupting the pregnant pause, Lucien Blake chuckled, his dimples creasing his beard and his teeth twinkling from under his moustache. Trixie inspected him openly, thinking that he was quite handsome in a rustic sort of way. He reminded her of Rex Harrison in _The Ghost and Mrs Muir_ , a favorite film from her teens.

Jean leaned in, making eye contact with them all in that forward manner of Australians. "Truth be told, after four weeks on the ocean liner, I'm fed up with this honeymoon—"

"What's this?" yelped Lucien. He draped his arm over the back of her chair and nudged her leg with his thigh. She looked at him under her eyelashes, bemused, and his lips twitched as he focused on her mouth.

Sister Julienne broke this second uncomfortable spell. "In any case, we're very grateful that you'll be lending a hand, making it possible for Dr and Mrs Turner to have some much deserved rest and time with their children."

The mentioned couple tried to appear pleased, but were watching the interlopers warily.

Jean explained: "I've worked my entire life, and like many a hard-working woman, I dreamed of being waited on hand and foot, lolling around all day eating sweets—"

Sister Evangelina, who'd also been observing suspiciously from the far end of the table, sniffed loudly.

"But truly, within a few days, I was going mad. Gourmet meals, our sheets changed the moment we stepped out of the suite, dancing under starlight every evening—" Jean held up her hands. "It's utterly dull now. When Mattie suggested we come out here to help—"

Lucien nodded. "Goodness yes, We jumped at it. All hands on deck, right?"

Phyllis Crane spoke up, cutting off Sister Evangelina's second indignant huff. "You'll find that the maternity home is hopping, and on Tuesday that we run a very busy community clinic, then there's Dr Turner's rounds. Our patients suffer from the sorts of complaints common to poverty and ignorance. What patients does your practice see?"

"Mostly general practice, although I am a surgeon as well. My surgery is in our home. A regular country doctor."

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged worried looks.

"But I've had experience with much more high stress situations. In the war." Lucien gave a brief smile but Trixie noticed there were no dimples this time.

"Where'd you serve?" Patrick asked with interest but when Lucien replied, "Asia," with no more information, he let the matter drop. They'd not crossed paths, it would seem.

"I'm Lucien's medical receptionist. I'll be happy to help as well," Jean said to Shelagh.

"We'll have to see," Shelagh said shortly. "I have a system, you see."

"And I have my Rolodex," cut in Phyllis. The other nurses fought to contain their amused expressions. The Blakes would soon learn about Nurse Crane's scheduling.

Lucien smiled reassuringly at the Turners, but then focused on Phyllis, asking her questions about the sort of cases seen, numbers of patients served, economics of the area, and as her hackles smoothed, so everyone else at the table relaxed.

The conversation flowed, with only the occasional bump such as Barbara asking if Jean had a problem with kangaroos in her garden.

"No..." Jean said slowly. "They prefer the golf course. Wide open spaces and the like."

Barbara blushed. "I just suppose that's what we think of Australia. Kangaroos hopping down the street, koalas in every tree—"

"I know what you mean," Jean said quickly, ready to make the young woman comfortable. "When coming to a big city like London, I think of murder—Jack the Ripper, that sort of things." She looked around the table. "Mattie tells us that you had a murder right here in Poplar."

Mattie gave a dramatic shudder, which seemed out of character for a young woman who'd proved to be very level-headed in her service as a community social worker.

"Yes, a woman's body was discovered near Blackwell Basin," Sister Julienne said soberly, glancing at Patsy. The usually vivacious nurse had been unnaturally quiet, her attention firmly on her plate. "A terrible shock for us all."

"I can't even imagine finding a murder victim," breathed Jean. "Simply terrifying."

Lucien asked carefully, "Mattie said that the victim was dressed as a nun?"

"That's true," confirmed Sister Julienne, "but she was not a member of our order, or connected to Sacred Heart either."

For the first time, Jean's cheerful visage sobered. "How awful. Do the police believe that nuns are being targeted?"

"They've told us nothing like that," Sister Julienne said, alarmed.

Sister Mary Cynthia was quick to add: "We feel very safe going out in all hours in Poplar, nuns and nurses alike. Even the roughest docker leaves us alone. They have mothers, sisters, their babies need to be born."

"So the woman was targeted for who she was? And do they know who she is yet?" asked Lucien, his face lively with curiosity.

"Sergeant Noakes showed us all the photograph, but no one recognises her," said Trixie. "Peter's an old friend of Nonnatus house, but now they've set some detective from Scotland Yard upon us. He is to arrive tomorrow and will surely grill us mercilessly," she added dramatically.

"He'll just be doing his job," Mattie said, then looked as though she regretted speaking.

Sister Monica Joan suddenly piped up, and at that moment, all the residents realised they'd been fearing what she might say. As expected, it was not polite.

"Citizenry of the Antipodes are most likely descended from blackguards and ruffians, off-loaded from our hallowed shores," she said haughtily. "Can you be trusted with our patients?"

Lucien's bright blue eyes sparkled and his grin widened. "I'm afraid that I'm from a long line of dull Scottish doctors."

"Speak for yourself," murmured Jean, still loud enough to be heard.

"That was a long time ago," Sr Winifred said, anxious to make amends for her earlier comment. "I'm quite sure that the Blakes are simply lovely people." Her smile was nervous again. "But of course you are in fact lovely people. We're so grateful that you have come." She passed the plate of sliced meats. "May I offer some tongue?"

Jean accepted the plate, but asked: "I'll be happy to help with the cooking as well. A month without even lifting a saucepan has left me quite mad."

"Jean—" said Lucien, "This is to be your holiday."

Sister Monica Joan was suddenly deeply interested. "Cooking? Do you bake?"

"Yes, indeed."

The old woman smiled encouragingly. "Do, please."

"Would you want something like a Lamington or a lemon curd sponge?"

"Yes." The old woman returned to carefully cutting her tongue and spearing it with her fork. Jean looked confused, but also continued to eat.

Only Sister Mary Cynthia had heard their exchange, and knew what would happen with Jean's generosity.

Once dinner was finished, recreation was taken in the lounge before compline for the sisters. Jean immediately checked through the sewing basket to see if there was anything that she could help with, and she assigned Mattie a few simple mending projects. The nurses watched this with amusement.

Mattie was their age, and yet at first when she came to Nonnatus House there'd been a bit of discomfort, as she'd left nursing to become a social worker. But already knowing Patsy from The London, she'd soon fitted in with her cheerful manner and quick intelligence, and her casework rounds meant passing on the rough streets daily. This was a new side though, to see her meek and compliant to a greater force.

Accepting that he'd also lost his battle with Jean, Lucien found the day's newspapers and settled on the sofa to read. Jean perched on the arm beside him, and his hand occasionally cupped her knee or smoothed down her back while he flipped through the papers. She pressed a kiss to his temple as though reassuring him that she was in fact, very much there.

"You two make me so happy," Mattie said suddenly, her mending forgotten on her lap.

"Silly girl," Jean said, but smiled back.

"Alright then. Your happiness pleases me."

Barbara gave a sigh as she watched. Mattie had introduced the Blakes as her second family, but Barbara's parents were nothing like this, with her father's wispy fringe and baggy flannels, and her mother's ruddy plump face perpetually fretful Dr Blake was running his hand up and down Jean's spine again and gazing up at her with a sort of childlike wonder.

"I'll go and have a bath then," Patsy said, and rose from her chair abruptly, as though something about the guests disturbed her.

Trixie stopped her as she went past. "Is there something wrong?" she asked, low.

"No, nothing." Patsy pulled free and left the room.

Sister Julienne checked the clock. "It's time for compline, so we'll say our good nights, Dr and Mrs Blake. We'll see you in the morning." All the nuns put aside their handicrafts and stood, smoothing their dark skirts before falling into step behind their leader.

Jean watched them go, her usually nimble knitting needles stilled. In a few minutes, the nuns' singing could be faintly heard. She began to check her stitches, but her fingers were trembling on the yarn. Lucien gave her back another rub, his face concerned.

Phyllis misunderstood. "After they finish with compline, they'll get ready for bed, and the Great Silence falls. You'd never believe you were in the midst of the East End, it's so silent in this old pile. I would think that you're used to quiet, being from Australia."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," said Jean, rising. "We'd best get in line for the bathroom."

Everyone exchanged goodnights, and the regular residents watched the couple leave, their interest still piqued.

Patsy lay in bed until she heard Trixie's breathing level and become regular. She carefully turned the cover over, and put on her slippers and dressing gown. Creeping toward the door, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She froze when she stepped on the loose floorboard and it creaked.

"Pats?" Trixie mumbled.

"Remembered I hadn't updated the logbook from my rounds. Be back in a tick."

Trixie fell back to sleep and Patsy opened the door just wide enough to escape their room. The corridor was dark but for the light left on in the stairwell to dash to a ringing phone. From the shadows, Mattie's hand reached out and grasped hers, the other woman not making a sound.

As Patsy followed her padding down the corridor, she was reminded of sneaking out after bedtime as a little girl, her sister in tow as they'd meet up with Armaan, the son of their nanny. Together, the three children would capture frogs from the moonlit goldfish pond to race along the dark garden paths. Armaan and Hope, both dead in the war—

"In here," Mattie dared to whisper, her hand on a room's knob.

Patsy stopped her. "You haven't told them about—"

"It's not relevant, is it?" Mattie murmured back.

When she opened the door, the room was black but for a shadowy figure silhouetted against the window, pulling the curtains together. She pulled Patsy inside and closed the door behind them. The shadow moved toward them, giving Patsy a flash of fear. Mattie flicked on the overhead light.

Dr Blake came to stand beside his wife who perched on the edge of the bed. His gaze, so guileless and cheerful all evening, was watchful and sharp now. Jean, her legs crossed and fingers restless with her dressing gown sash, was equally serious.

"Lucien and Jean are here to help, Patsy," said Mattie, "they're going to find the killer."

~ end chapter 1

E/N: Must gratitude to Miss Ouiser and My Little Yellowbird for CtM help and thoughts, Crinklybrownleaves for Proper Brit Speak, London tips, and a proper slap to syntax, AussieGirl for Australian thoughts, and HikerLady for a steely gaze.


	2. Chapter 2

Patsy was trying to understand how an Australian doctor and his wife could solve a murder when Lucien asked, "Whisky?" holding up a hip flask and a bouquet of water glasses in his large hand.

"I'll have a nip if it's the good stuff," Mattie said, plopping down on the bed beside Jean.

Draping her arm around Mattie's shoulders, Jean held her close. "It's so wonderful to be with you again," she murmured happily while Lucien passed around glasses.

Watching their obvious bond, Patsy felt a sharp pang and remained by the door, her back against the wall. She gulped down her drink.

Lucien filled her glass again. "Mattie hasn't told us much beyond you need our help with this murder," he said carefully. "But I gather that you know more than you told the police?"

Patsy sank into a nearby straight-backed chair, feeling as though she were seated for an interrogation. Turning the glass in her hands, she focused on the amber liquid sloshing inside it. She could sense him standing over her, but unlike many other men, she didn't feel impatience and dominance radiating from him. There was a comfort in his steady presence.

Finally she said, "I know her. I mean, I knew her."

Jean rose quietly and retrieved a notepad and pencil from her handbag before rejoining Mattie on the bed.

"Her name is Teresa Smith. Or it was," Patsy corrected yet again. "I don't know what name she used now." She took a quick sip of whisky, even though her throat was already burning. "I was in a prisoner of war camp. In Malaya after Singapore fell—"

Lucien stopped her with a raised hand. "Was your father Henry Mount? Your mother Diana?"

"Yes," she stuttered.

"I was stationed there before the war with the army. I'd see your parents at parties occasionally—he was in shipping, right?"

She nodded, feeling oddly vulnerable, as if the new life she'd built for herself was being pushed aside like a thick curtain to reveal the fragments of her old world; there was so much she didn't want to think about and yet she must. Staring up at Lucien, she tried to place his face—had he had a beard then? Her mind recalled vague features, but was it what she'd really seen, or a need to touch that gossamer past, before the deprivation of the camp?

"So there was your mother and you...and there was another little girl? My daughter attended a birthday party at your house once."

Her chin barely tipped; head was too heavy to move.

"Your father was in my camp, although we didn't cross paths much," Lucien said, and he was looking at Mattie speculatively. "I think I treated him for cholera once or twice." She returned his gaze with all innocence. "Mrs Smith was in your camp?"

"Yes, but I didn't know her before. Mum would have known her from Father's work. Her husband was just some clerk in the office," Patsy said, unconsciously dismissive.

"And something happened in the camp?" Jean asked, speaking for the first time. She was looking at her husband as she asked the question.

"Mrs Smith was a collaborator," Patsy said bluntly. "She passed along information on other prisoners, and she had sex with the Japanese officers to get special treatment for her and her daughter." She finally looked up, her eyes flaming with fury despite the passage of time. "When Susan died despite that, I didn't care at all."

"Yes," Lucien said simply. He cut through the tension in the room. "When did you next see her? After the war."

"Wednesday before last. I don't know where she came from, or why. I was leaving a home delivery in the afternoon, and there she was on the kerb."

"Was she dressed as a nun then?"

"No, at least I don't think so. Just a normal tweed coat, I assume over a dress. Black stockings. Low heels." Patsy shrugged.

"Did you speak?"

"I asked what she was doing here, and she gave some non answer. I told her to stay away from me."

Lucien cocked his head. "Did she know who you were?"

"I'm the image of my mother." She couldn't look at Mattie and Jean and see their pity.

"Next you saw her the night she died?"

"Yes."

Lucien watched Patsy beginning to lie. This was always the fascinating moment in interviews and why he first asked questions for which he'd receive truthful answers. He could easily see the shift from honesty to duplicity.

"I ran into her again that night—the night she was killed—and she was in the nun's habit. I assumed she was up to her old tricks. I told her to get out of Poplar and stay away. She said that she would and I left her."

"What time was that?"

There it was, the rapid blink that said a lie was close. "Going on six."

Lucien wondered was the lie what was said or what was unspoken? Jean made rapid notes, the scratching of pencil lead loud in the tense room.

"I didn't come back straight away. I didn't trust her. I wanted to follow her and see where she lived; be able to be sure that she'd leave. I was waiting across the street, and when she came out, I went after her, but lost her in the fog. Then her body was discovered back in that side street in the morning."

"Why not go to the police?" asked Jean.

Patsy had a quick answer, too pat for Lucien. "I had been angry with her. We'd quarrelled. I knew it wouldn't look good and I don't like to talk about the past. I have no idea why someone would murder her now."

Relieved at finishing, Patsy swallowed the last of her whisky. She was a lovely girl, Lucien thought dispassionately. Much like Mattie, but more vivid, her makeup brighter, her hair a shocking shade of red, her legs much longer. But it all appeared a shell to him, something impenetrable and polished to a bright sheen, meant to keep others out.

"You'd have nothing to worry about," he said quietly, "that's not much of a motive."

"I feel she's responsible for women and children dying. She received food and medicine by collaborating. She could have shared, and she didn't." Patsy's voice was as flat as if reading out of the phone book.

Lucien leaned against the wall and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea who _would_ want her dead?"

"As I said, I had no idea she was in England, let alone in Poplar. I don't know if her husband survived—I couldn't tell you what he looked like. He was just another clerk in my father's large office."

"Can she go to the police now? Nurse Franklin said the Scotland Yard detective is coming tomorrow to take over the case," Jean reminded them. "Patsy could simply say that she didn't recognise her when she first saw the photograph. No one looks their best dead," she pointed out practically. "And you were a child when you last saw her."

"I'd never forget her face," Patsy growled.

Jean tugged down her dressing gown over her legs and murmured, "I wouldn't mention that then."

"Trixie also said the local police are sympathetic to Nonnatus House?" Mattie said.

"You've met Peter," Patsy told Mattie. She explained to the Blakes, "Sergeant Noakes is married to a former Poplar midwife. He's even lived with us now and then. He's well-known and liked. But he's only a uniform sergeant. This will be a Detective Inspector."

Mattie wasn't deterred. "So perhaps you could offer your services, Lucien. Explain that you're a police surgeon in Australia."

Patsy was interested in this information. Mattie had only told her that she'd asked friends to help, and that they had experience solving murders. She'd assumed that meant they were private detectives.

Lucien laughed. "I very much doubt Scotland Yard would accept the assistance of a small town police surgeon from the colonies."

Jean didn't appear to have heard this. She checked her notepad. "Right. So we need to determine if this Noakes fellow can be trusted to take into our confidence. If we reveal our background, he may actually give us less information than if we continue in our curious tourist performance."

Mattie gave her a quick hug. "You were very good tonight. Up there with your Elvira in _Blithe Spirit_."

Jean elbowed her with an affectionate nudge, and Lucien noted Patsy's brief pained expression. He returned to the matter at hand. "We should try to find this Mr Smith—do you happen to remember his Christian name, Patsy?"

"I'm afraid not."

"We'll have to see if Teresa was using her real name, and from there, perhaps find the husband if he survived."

Jean made the note. "And where did she get a habit?"

"That I do know," Patsy said. "With the discovery of the body, the case of the missing laundry from the back garden washing-line was solved. Peter, that is Sergeant Noakes, checked first with Sacred Heart, the nearest Catholic church, because he knew she wasn't a member of this order. They couldn't identify her, but did tell him that their nuns had had missing laundry as well."

"Duly noted," said Jean efficiently, scribbling this down. "Gossip must be flying down in the markets," she added, "I'll go shopping tomorrow, and see what I can gather."

"I'll chat up patients tomorrow as well. Surely someone has heard or seen something," said Lucien.

This wasn't how detectives in the cinema solved crimes, but Patsy had no other option. She stood, wavering a bit, more from the resurfacing emotions than the alcohol. "Thank you, but I suppose that I should get to bed. District rounds start bright and early."

It was Jean who came to Patsy, took her hands and gave them a squeeze. "It'll be alright," she said. Patsy turned away from her concern.

"Let's sneak back to our rooms," said Mattie, following her through the door.

In the corridor, they waited until their eyes adjusted to the dimness. Mattie repeated her friend's assurance. "It'll turn out fine, Patsy."

"I'm so close to having everything I want," Patsy muttered. "Delia is to move in soon. I love my work here—"

Mattie put her arm around Patsy's shoulders for a hug.

"You're not going to tell them, are you? About Delia and me?"

"Of course not. If as you say, it has nothing to do with this case?" Mattie looked at her friend searchingly.

"No. But surely the police would tell Sister Julienne and she wouldn't let Delia come; have me removed from duty." Patsy's tone became near hysterical, alarming Mattie. This was so unlike her very controlled friend.

When Mattie and Patsy had first met, Mattie had thought the other redhead was great fun, a skilled nurse, but had recognised the guarded expression in her eyes, like shutters drawn closed the closer friends they became—it was Lucien's gaze. Eventually though, Mattie's quiet, patient manner and weeks of chats over coffee and biscuits late into the night had finally led to a discussion if those people attracted to the same sex could change.

"No, I don't believe so," Mattie had said, remembering Lucien's tutelage after the unsettling case with the man who killed a rival for his male lover. More weeks passed before Patsy had haltingly confessed of feelings that she'd always had, never knew a time when she didn't, and how she felt trapped by these attractions.

"Do you think treatment could change me?" she'd asked. "Would you be willing to—"

"No," Mattie had said again, "Love is the only treatment you need."

Though now Mattie saw that supporting Patsy to take this risk may lead to her exposure. Mattie whispered urgently, "Delia is your alibi for when Teresa died. You may have to ask her—"

"No," Patsy said sharply, a snake's hiss in the darkness.

They were at Mattie's box room door. "I have my own rounds tomorrow. Best get to sleep." She gave Patsy another quick hug. "Everything will seem better in the morning."

Tense, Patsy said, "If you say so," and hurried away to her own room.

Phyllis, who'd been slipping out to use the toilet, stood in her dark doorway and watched the young women part, curiosity and concern on her plain features.

* * *

Pulling her dressing gown close against the chill, Jean carefully reviewed her notes before putting the notebook in her handbag. "At first blush, Patsy seems such a strong young woman, but then to hear her story—there was something about her at the dinner table. I just couldn't put my finger on it at the time. Now her tension makes sense."

"Yes," Lucien said shortly, removing his gown and tossing it over the footboard.

"You don't trust her?"

"I trust Mattie. But she has to know that we'll find the killer, and if it's Patsy, we're not going to just walk away. I hope Patsy is worth her trust."

He decided not to tell her about his prickle of concern. Mattie had always been one to dive into a case, particularly if a friend was involved. She'd been remarkably silent while he'd interviewed Patsy.

He turned down the covers on the two single beds that were pushed together to make a marital bed for the visitors. He frowned at the arrangement; each bed had a single cover tucked in between the mattresses, thus they'd not be able to snuggle together in the middle as had become their way. Not exactly the honeymoon suite at the Savoy it would seem. Then he noticed the crucifix over the bed and grimaced. There'd been an uncertain moment when Sister Julienne had led the prayer over dinner and he'd actually thought that Jean wasn't going to bow her head. She did, but he'd felt tension coming off her. This wouldn't help the situation.

Jean dropped her dressing gown from her shoulders. She draped it beside his and stood shivering. It was so damp and cold in this country. She was glad for packing her more practical satin pyjamas under all the frivolous night dresses meant only to be worn long enough to entice her groom into removing them. This set offered slightly more warmth, and would do for scampering across the corridor to the toilet.

Lucien saw that Jean had on her silk pyjamas, not one of her lovely chiffon nighties, a parade of pastel clouds which had pleased him greatly. Was she warning him off? He was unsure for the first time since before their wedding day. Pushing this away, he returned to the situation at hand: "At the least, I'd say she's keeping quite a bit to herself. It's going to make this case difficult. We're not on our home patch, after all."

"We'll be fresh eyes," Jean said. She burrowed under the eiderdown, grateful for the warmth. Lucien slid into his side, shivering as well. Unable to snug against him with the covers tucked, she lay her hand on his shoulder. "Yes, we will have to trust Mattie's instinct. She's not failed us before."

It had been so wonderful to see Mattie again, after she was unable to attend their wedding. Almost as much as Jean's sons not being present, the empty chair where she should have been was painful. Ignoring the disapproving stares of the very proper guests in the Savoy tearoom, Lucien and Jean had enveloped Mattie in hugs, tears streaming. After catching up on the news from Ballarat, she'd explained that she was no longer seconded to St Bart's but was assigned to an East End district, Poplar, where she performed social work among the poor.

"Is this what you really want to be doing?" Jean had asked, her fingers still clasped with Mattie's.

"More than anything," Mattie had assured them. After a pause, she'd added, "But there's something you can help me with."

In her honeymoon glow, Jean had foolishly assumed it would be a boy so she was shocked when Mattie said, "There's been a murder, you see."

She'd told them a nurse she'd worked with at The London may become a suspect in the crime. "I told her that I know just the people to help," Mattie said with confidence. "If you find the real killer, she won't be in any danger." Dipping her head so they couldn't see her eyes, she sipped her tea.

Jean and Lucien had exchanged speculative looks over Mattie's bowed head. They were quite certain that the situation wasn't as simple as the young woman was making out, but knew they must help her. Just as they'd suspected, this was going to be a complicated situation.

Snapping off the light, Jean said, "We'd best get to sleep." She tried to scoot close but was thwarted by the barrier of tucked-in covers again, which left her straining to reach his cheek for a kiss. To her consternation, he didn't turn his face to return the kiss. He was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

"Goodnight," she murmured, tugging the covers under her chin against the cold. Usually, his greater weight would dip the mattress, and she could be pulled in like a moon to an orbit.

"Night," drifted from his side of the bed and it sounded very final.

They'd made love every day since their wedding. In the first few furious days, this hadn't shocked her. It had been so very long for her, and for him too, she'd been surprised to learn.

"You didn't have to...to not—" she'd said, her flushed face buried in his neck.

"Yes, I did," he'd promised, lips against her ear as though sharing a secret.

Away from Ballarat, on the ocean liner, all became like a dream really. No longer a housekeeper, she was Deborah Kerr in _An Affair to Remember_. Her dashing gentleman in evening dress, his gaze caressing her features through candlelight, his fingertips tracing the back of her hand over the dinner table..and then the parts she never saw happen on screen.

She had his complete focus. No patients, no cases, no old files to thumb through. Learning her body, her every response, where she was ticklish, what touch would make her gasp or whimper, became his duty as important as any oath he'd made in life.

It had become an undertow which pulled her deeper and deeper. When she thought that he couldn't find anything more to give her, he did. Even as she was sated, arousal rose again with just the stroke of his fingertips on her wrist as he took her hand—she'd never experienced anything like this before. The desire she remembered with Christopher had been short-lived, overcome by raising her sons and the farm's needs. In the last years, it became fleeting intimacy when Christopher would crawl atop her, muttering both promises and apologies in the same beer-soaked breath.

This was something completely different. But Lucien made love to her, but not with her, she came to realise with frustration. When she tried to turn the tables on him, shatter his control just once, he'd hold her hands away, firm but gentle, and his kisses drugged her back into submission. Within moments, she'd hear herself groan, "Oh bloody hell, what does it matter?" and he'd chuckle as a reply.

Lifted above him by the wave's curl for agonisingly delicious long minutes; her soul centred at that inner place that every thrust of his hips found, feeling the tension of his bunching chest muscles under her palms, the thud of his pulse where her fingertips grazed his heated skin...and she'd rock to and fro, finally sliding slowly down the face of the crest, pure, pure pleasure—the sun above...burning heat and great joy. There was no singular harsh jolt of completion, but ripples of ecstasy, rolling through her limbs like the currents carrying the ship.

Only when she'd settle to the mattress beside him would she remember her better intentions and chide, "Let me give you pleasure," but he'd just flash that blinding smile as he stroked the damp curls from her cheek.

"I'm so very happy, Jean. I don't need anything more."

Apparently he didn't need it tonight. The voyage was over; the ship had docked. Like Deborah and Cary, perhaps now they were parted on the pier. The apron would be tied at her waist and the stethoscope draped around his neck.

She glanced over at Lucien, feeling shy. His eyes were closed but she knew he wasn't asleep, and his distance only made her more uncertain. She rolled away, clutching the coverlet. Her hands clasped together under her chin. This building, with the familiar mix of musty parchment, incense, and furniture polish, smelled just like the church that had been her second home all her life, Sacred Heart. She hadn't said her evening prayers since the night before her wedding. Perhaps it was time to fall back into that old habit too. The honeymoon had been a dream come true, but it was time to put that in a box...right? The sin of gluttony—desire, overwhelmed all common sense. Yes, order must be restored to their lives. Perhaps she should seek out Poplar's Sacred Heart and confess— Then she remembered that she couldn't do that, and her grip tightened on the covers.

Lucien peered over her shoulder and saw her lips moving in prayer. That was new...or rather, something that she hadn't done in front of him yet. Had she wanted to do it all along but felt too uncomfortable? He shifted as far away as he could on the narrow mattress to give her some privacy. Four weeks of her legs twined with his, her arm flung low across his belly, her gentle snores against his collarbone, her curls tangled in his beard...he hadn't slept so deeply for years. Of course, the vigorous exercise beforehand surely had something to do with that.

Not tonight. He turned carefully on his side, his back to her. For the first time since their wedding night, he dreaded sleep. What if he suffered terrors? He'd been lying there, fighting back this thought but now there was no escaping it. His temptation to reach for Jean—had he been using her all this time to bring on exhaustion? To lose himself in her taste, her scent, her eager response? He couldn't use her again. He had a job. That would do. His mind jittered to Patsy Mount, her lies, her problem.

Jean had said that Patsy didn't look like a camp survivor. Were they marked? Could anyone tell? When he looked in the mirror, he still couldn't see his broad shoulders and barrel chest, the spread of his middle. He only saw the bones protruding, a rack for the few scraps of cloth that he dared to consider garments, his ashen cheeks where hardly any beard would grow, and those eyes. Damn those eyes.

He pulled in a shaking breath. Breathe. Think. Focus. He glanced over his shoulder at Jean again, but there was just the outline of her hunched back under the thick covers. He dared to whisper, "Jean?"

Her reply was quick: "Yes, Lucien?"

"I'll need to get a look at that body first thing," he told her.

Her eyes snapped open. Yes, the honeymoon is over.

~ end chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Winifred bustled into the kitchen to put the kettle on for breakfast tea when she pulled up short. Mrs Blake was already on duty, apron over a pretty blue dress.

"Good morning," Jean said brightly. "I thought that I'd get started right off."

Flummoxed, the nun said, "Of course," then asked, "what can I do?" as though she were the visitor and not Jean.

Jean already had the meal planned and organized after a quick squiz in the antiquated fridge and cabinets. Bacon was sizzling in a frying pan, beans bubbled in a pan at the back of the cooker, and she had a bowl of eggs ready to scramble as soon as the others arrived. "You've had prayers?" she asked carefully.

"Those were done by five," explained Sister Winifred.

"Right then," Jean said stiffly. "I'm afraid I don't know much about Anglican nuns," she explained. "I'm...I was..." She didn't know what to say next.

"Oh yes." To cover her own confusion, Winifred began to slice bread for toast.

Jean couldn't contain her curiosity. "Are you like normal nuns? I mean, like Catholic nuns?"

Winifred cocked her head. "We take the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience; just the same."

While putting the bread slices under the grill, Jean nodded. Before she could ask anymore questions, Sister Julienne joined them and the pace picked up for breakfast preparation.

As they set the table together, Sister Julienne said, "You didn't need to get up on your first day and do all this."

Mattie and Sister Mary Cynthia came in before Jean could answer. Mattie jumped into the conversation. "There's no stopping Jean. She's used to looking after everyone under the roof."

Jean gave Mattie a quick hug, and they were still chattering when Lucien appeared, pausing in the doorway at the sight of so many women.

Then he spotted Jean and moved forward for his morning kiss as though they were the only two people in the room, with nuns scattering in a flutter of dark wool. Mattie leaned against the table and smiled as Lucien gave his wife a robust greeting. She'd left him sleeping and he needed to rectify this situation. In the light of day, surrounded by the hustle and warmth of the kitchen, he couldn't remember why he hadn't gone over the ramparts last night to Jean's side of the bed, and expressed this all with his kiss and strong arms pulling her close.

Flushing and patting her hair back in place, Jean said, "Let me get those eggs cooking."

Sister Evangelina stumped in and shot Lucien an outraged look before filling her teacup and sitting at the table.

Ducking his head, Lucien sat at the far end of the table from her. Patsy and Trixie arrived with Phyllis and Barbara close behind, filling all the seats around the table. As they ate, Patsy just pushed around her breakfast while the others watched her with concern. A query from Trixie received only a curt reply.

As soon as her plate was empty, Sister Evangelina carried it the sink. "Let me start on today's assignments," she announced. Frustrated at being sublimated, Phyllis hopped up and followed. Seeing their signal to start the day, the others finished up and moved off. Jean started the cleanup in the kitchen while Lucien unfolded the morning paper.

Hearing a faint rap at the front door, Sister Julienne hurried to answer. She brought Sergeant Peter Noakes back with her. "Have some tea, Sergeant," she said after introducing him to the Blakes. Trying to contain their excitement at the police coming to them, they looked over the barrel-chested constable, with his warm, honest expression. This was someone with whom they could work.

Jean glanced around the kitchen. "I can quickly toast some bread...there's jam?"

Peter thanked her and took a chair by Lucien. Folding the paper and putting it aside, Lucien affected the slightly clueless foreigner. "The ladies told us about the murder, yeah?" He blinked owlishly. "Is there news?"

Patsy lurked outside the dining room, her face fretful. Lucien tipped his head slightly and she melted away before Peter could turn to look.

"Nothing, really," Peter said with a sigh. He smiled his thanks to Jean as she brought him a plate piled high with hot buttered toast, the jam pot, and the remaining bacon. "DI Flowers phoned to say he'd start with interviews at Nonnatus House today. I told him nearly everyone would be out on rounds, but he didn't listen."

"That will slow the wheels of justice," Lucien said with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Jean shot him a warning look before returning to the washing up. As she put away things and wiped down the surfaces, she worked on her shopping list. Sister Monica Joan, her morning radio programme finished, oozed into the kitchen.

"It would be prudent to make a cake...or perhaps two...before you are taxed with duties in the surgery," the wily old nun suggested.

Jean humoured her. "And biscuits? While I have the oven heated up."

Sister Monica Joan beamed.

"Now, what sort of cake will you like?"

It was almost too overwhelming for the cake-loving nun. Her arthritic fingers writhed as she thought.

"Coconut?" Jean suggested. She mused, "I don't suppose you have passion fruit here."

Senior Monica Joan looked alarmed.

Jean decided to play it safe. "Lemon?"

"Lovely," the nun said happily.

Jean started adding to her list.

"So no progress in finding the dead woman's identity?" Lucien asked Peter.

"Nothing. Usually by now, a wife or mother would be reported missing."

"Mother? She'd given birth?"

"Yes, there's been a preliminary exam," Peter said, his trusting eyes blinking slowly at Lucien's quivering interest.

"How sad," murmured Lucien, sipping the dregs of his tea.

"She's over at the Croft Brothers undertakers in case someone comes in. There's not much we can do until that happens. I don't know what this detective thinks he'll find," Peter grumbled.

Lucien cocked his head, bright-eyed as a spaniel watching for his signal to retrieve.

Peter changed the subject with determination, and Lucien's regret. "Settling in alright?"

Lucien smiled ruefully. "Getting used to it."

"I had to live here for a bit, me and the wife, after we returned home from doing a spot of missionary work in Africa."

"I definitely feel that I'm the sole man here," Lucien admitted.

Peter shook his head. "Got one tip for you, mate."

Lucien shifted closer. "Yes?"

"Put that seat down, every time."

"Seat?"

Peter rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "That seat."

"Oh, I see." Lucien tugged down his waistcoat. "Right." Understanding dawned on his face. "Was it perhaps the one—name much too frivolous for such a no-nonsense sort? Sister Evangelina?"

"That's her. Mind you, she's a treasure, but don't cross her."

Lucien looked over his shoulder, ensuring Jean wasn't listening. "I fear that I already did."

"Crikey," Peter said. "You left the seat up?"

Lucien confessed, "I took a bath and she caught me."

"She walked in on you?" Peter asked, appalled.

"No," Lucien insisted. "I walked out—with just my towel on."

Peter pushed back from the table in shock, and looked Lucien up and down. The long-time nursing sister had seen a lot of naked men in her time, surely, but this may have been a startling encounter nonetheless, she not her habit.

Lucien tried to defend himself. "Our room is across the corridor. I didn't realize that I'd forgotten my dressing gown until I got out of the bath."

"No," gasped Peter.

"Yes," admitted Lucien. "She didn't say anything, but I could tell that she wasn't pleased."

Peter could only nod. He knew that expression on the sister's face exactly.

Jean swept in, tugging her apron loose. "Time we got a move on. Sister Winifred will show you the way to the surgery and I'll go to the market."

Meekly, Lucien followed her to fetch their coats. Although the case was foremost in his mind, he was also very interested in the patients. It had been years since he'd done this sort of field practice, perhaps not since the camp, really.

He had to close his eyes and hold his breath to calm his nerves. Patsy's terse story had made his own time as a prisoner return in hot waves of memory. The smell—the stink. It never left the senses. Medical antiseptic covered it in the proper clinical setting, but these patients would be coming from dire circumstances; no Ballarat housewives with boils to lance.

"Lucien?" Jean was at his elbow, her face concerned.

"Let's get to it," he said firmly, taking her arm.

Sister Winifred, buttoning up her dark overcoat, ushered them out and down the street to the surgery.

"Mrs Turner is waiting for you," she told Lucien, then stood awkwardly aside while he enthusiastically kissed Jean goodbye.

After Jean had quickly checked her lipstick in her compact, they were off to the street market selling all manner of foodstuffs. Winding among the bustle, Jean tried not to become overwhelmed. The smell assaulted her. She'd noticed it when they'd first landed at Southampton, and she'd put it down to a month of fresh sea air, but she wasn't getting accustomed to the strong sting of diesel fuel, coal ash and raw sewage. It nearly made her eyes water and yet no one else seemed to notice.

A pile of bright yellow lemons caught her eye and she stopped at the stall. That cake for Sister Monica Joan...

"Ouch!" she squealed, grabbing her ankle. Some animal had bitten her—a rat?

Peering under the table, she saw not a creature, but a toddler, dressed in thick black coat, stockings and a dark woollen cap, with unhealthy-looking flushed cheeks and small mean dark eyes. "That wasn't very nice," she growled to the child, hopping backward.

"Oi! Git off!" screeched a harsh female voice from behind a mound of apples. When Jean just stared back at her, this short woman, swatched in black from head to toe like her child, and whose face bore a remarkable resemblance to the furious baby, let loose with a stream of abuse that was completely unintelligible to Jean.

Sister Winifred hurried over from the fish stall where she'd been bargaining for mussels. "Mrs Carter!" she cried out, "what is all this?"

While the costermonger was getting her breath to begin a fresh stream of abuse, Jean spoke first. "This child bit me. I told her that wasn't nice, and her mum—" Well, Jean had no real idea what the mother had said.

"Wot's dis!?" Another woman came rushing up, an exact duplicate of the first, holding a toddler on her hip who was a twin to the child now standing beside Jean stomping on her foot.

Hopping around on her unmolested foot, Jean tried to get away from them.

"Wot she sayin'!?" yelled the first woman. "Dis not p'par English!" she directed at Jean scornfully.

"Why don't we move on," murmured Sister Winifred, tugging Jean's arm. Agreeing, Jean hurried after her to get swallowed by the clutter of stalls, goods, merchants and punters.

"What in the world was that?" she asked the nun when they finally slowed.

"The Carters are a very unique family," was all Sister Winifred could find to say. "Let's try another seller."

Jean, mindful that her dialect was apparently a problem for these people, spoke very slowly and carefully as she made purchases. Unfortunately she was having great difficulty understanding their replies. She was very thankful for her guide as she filled her string bags to bulging.

Lucien was having his own difficulties in this markedly different culture.

First there'd been the matter of finding a clinical coat for him. Dr Turner's couldn't get past his elbows, let alone buttoned up. Mrs Turner found one worn by a portly locum who occasionally covered shifts, and although it could fit over his thick arms and broad shoulders, it was too short while too full, giving him the look of wearing a French painter's smock.

Mrs Turner, like a small worried sparrow, clucked her tongue over this.

"My wife will alter it for me tonight," Lucien assured her, trying to tug the coat down over his bum. He felt oddly exposed like this. Then the odour overwashed him again, and he remembered tending to hundreds of patients wearing nothing but his sunburned skin and a scrap of old sacking.

Forcing on a smile, he clapped his hands together. "Right then. Ready for patients."

It was a difficult morning. He was asked three times if he was a real doctor, being Australian and all that, where surely there were no proper medical schools. He reassured them that he'd been educated right here in the United Kingdom, but he could still see the reservation in their eyes. Four times, he had to repeat his instructions because his dialect wasn't comprehended, and twice he had to ask Mrs Turner to translate for him when he didn't understand the patient. The furrow in her brow deepened with each worrying moment.

She wanted to keep Mrs Chapman until after Patrick came to the surgery in another hour, but the young woman kept checking her watch. "I must get home, Mrs Turner," she pleaded. "Me mum's watching the lil' un' and she's not strong."

"Of course, Mrs Chapman," Shelagh murmured, and let her into the exam room where Lucien was washing his hands at the sink. She decided to find reasons to stay, and began to check the stock of tongue depressors and cotton balls. Emmie Chapman came in regularly for symptoms of venereal disease, but refused to accept that her husband was the cause. Billy loved her and would never do such a thing.

Lucien quickly glanced over Emmie's card but his expression gave nothing away. Instead, he sat down before her, leaned on his thighs, and looked at the young woman with gentle consideration. Nonetheless, Shelagh hovered and waited, her breath caught in her throat.

"What seems to be the problem today, Mrs Chapman?"

Emmie glanced nervously at Shelagh, who smiled encouragingly. "I got these here bumps on me down-belows. Those ain't a bother, but now I got these here bumps on me pa'ms." She held out her hands for Lucien to see.

He cradled her small pale hand in his large tanned one and prodded gently at the cankers with his finger. "How long have you had these?" he asked.

She thought. "A week or so, 'spose."

He hummed in the back of his throat. "It looks as though you've got a bacterial infection, and a jab of some penicillin should do you."

"Alright," Emmie said slowly, but shot Shelagh an unfriendly glare. Then she asked, "Wot's a bad terrier?"

"It's a very very small bug," he explained, standing to wash his hands again. "You can't see it without a microscope."

"Where did I git them?"

Shelagh held her breath at this question.

"Simple touch of skin to skin." Lucien said, then asked as though struck by inspiration, "Any chance that Mr Chapman has the same sort of sores?"

"Yes."

"Not surprised. With such a lovely wife, I'm sure he's always holding your hand."

Emmie simpered, and Shelagh frowned behind her back. Lucien just smiled, avoiding Shelagh's eye contact.

"I say, why don't we have Mr Chapman—"

"Billy."

"Let's have Billy come on in for his jab, shall we?" Lucien rose and squeezed her shoulder. "Now let me get that syringe ready."

"I'll prepare it, Doctor," Shelagh said and he thanked her.

After Mrs Chapman left, Lucien told Shelagh, "If that bastard comes in, I'd like to see him personally. I'll finish what I started, not pass it off to Dr Turner."

"Yes, Doctor—" she murmured, taken aback by his passionate language.

"Please. Lucien." His teeth were blindingly bright and she felt herself unbending, her cheeks warming.

Jean was searching for a large bowl in the cupboards when Mattie entered the kitchen.

"My ten o'clock interview cancelled," Mattie grumbled. "It's difficult enough to convince folks to see a social worker, but then they will back out after chatting with friends."

"That's a shame," Jean mused distractedly. Bowl found, she set about adding the ingredients for cakes.

Mattie watched her for a minute, then noted, "It's so wonderful to see you both again. And looking so well!"

Jean flashed her a smile of thanks.

"And you both seem very relaxed," Mattie had to add.

Jean gave her a quelling look, but the young woman kept her expression innocent.

"You can help me," Jean commanded. "Just like old times."

Mattie quickly put on an apron, feeling such joy to be back in a near forgotten routine.

As they worked, she became serious. Trying to keep her tone casual, she asked, "Lucien seems so happy, truly. But how is he sleeping?"

"Very deeply," Jean said primly.

Bumping her hip against Jean's, Mattie shook her head. "I'm sure," she conceded. "I meant...no nightmares?"

"No," Jean said shortly, and Mattie could see Jean's old barriers rising, this time for her husband and not herself.

She pushed on, determined. "I've been treating a number of people here in Poplar with shell shock. Not just returned soldiers, but wives and mothers, children, who went through the Blitz. Many can't sleep, even all these years later. Have turned to alcohol—"

"Mattie, he's fine. Truly," Jean insisted. "He has me now. I'll take care of him if there's any problems."

Mattie started to protest, and then the definite set to Jean's chin stopped her. Lamely, she offered to mix the cake batter in the second bowl.

Pulling out the biscuits that she'd made first, Jean popped the cakes into the oven. Mattie noted the time, and her next appointment was soon. With a kiss to Jean's offered cheek, she headed out.

Lucien met her on the stairs up to the front door, and got his own kiss as the young woman rushed to her bicycle.

He found his wife moving the biscuits from the hot trays to the cooling racks. After glancing around and seeing no nuns lurking, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his nose in her hair.

"Missed you," he mumbled.

She glanced at the clock. "You've only been gone three hours."

"Seems an age. It's the longest that we've been apart since our wedding day."

She smoothed her hand along his bared forearm, squeezing his wrist in silent agreement.

His beard brushed against her neck as he ran his palms down her thighs. "I've missed the sight of you, the scent of you, the feel of you—" Perhaps they could go upstairs and he could rectify his reluctance from the previous night...

When he shifted against her bum, she whispered a warning, "Lucien," then the swish of a habit's thick wool as Sister Julienne passed made her gently push him away. "Go read your newspaper, and I'll bring tea," she told him.

His lower lip protruding in comical petulance, Lucien made his way into the lounge. In a few minutes, Jean joined him, bringing a tea tray with a plate of biscuits. He shifted closer on the saggy cushion as she poured out.

"How was your morning in the surgery?" she asked, filling his hands by giving him a tea cup and saucer with two crisp biscuits on the side.

Seeing she was determined to hear his tale before indulging in a kiss and cuddle, he said: "I have a delightful patient, very talkative, Mrs Berners. I could see that she'd be the sort to always have her eyes and ears open—she reminded me of a wonderful housekeeper who I used to have."

Jean pinched him in the ribs, right below his newest scar. He winced, but kept going. "When I asked her how this imposter nun could move around the neighborhood without anyone noticing, she pointed out they all look alike at a distance."

"That's rather rude to say." Jean sipped her tea.

"She was quite contrite about saying that. But she told me Sister Mary Cynthia was a midwife before taking her vows. Delivered two of her grandchildren. Mrs Berners spent hours with her. And yet once she put on the veil, Mrs Berners' younger girl was dilated to ten centimetres before she recognized her."

"I suppose," Jean said slowly. "That suggests the victim knew she'd be recognised if not in disguise."

"Good catch," he said, putting aside his cup and patting her knee. Then his hand slid under the hem of her skirt.

She glanced over the back of the sofa, and seeing no one, tickled her fingers under his waistcoat to stroke the swell of his belly.

He nestled his nose against her neck. "And she said that Mrs Turner used to be a nun. Didn't know her out of the habit."

"Really?" Jean murmured, shifting her thighs to give his wandering touch better access.

"I'm not surprised. I expected her to rap my knuckles with a ruler a few times today."

"Lucien," she scolded, but then gasped at his fingertips finding the top edge of her stocking.

"She's right though," she murmured against his mouth, "you are a bad boy," just before surrendering to his kiss.

While the Blakes were preoccupied, a dark figure slipped through the shadows behind the lounge, moving on silent feet. She knew where every creak was located in the floorboards and scampered along with a grace that belied her age.

But her greed got the better of her. Three biscuits quickly eaten, four more into the deep pockets in her habit, then she cracked the oven to check on the cakes' progress— the old hinge on the oven door screeched, and she heard the couple scrabble on the sofa. Jean rose and called out, "Are they burning?"

"No, no," Sister Monica Joan garbled, quickly brushing crumbs from her dark habit before Jean came round the corner, doing a quick straightening of her rumpled dress. "Just thought I'd check on them."

Jean noted the missing biscuits with a perplexed frown, and checked the cakes. "Perfect," she said, "I was lucky these didn't burn. I was...distracted."

Sister Monica Joan used Jean's embarrassment to give a judgemental sniff, but her old eyes glistened at the sight of the golden mounds in the cake tins. After setting the tins on the cooling rack, Jean tugged off the oven gloves.

Lucien was at the kitchen doorway. "Jean, we have a little errand to run."

Puzzled, she went to him and he led her away from the obviously listening sister. He glanced at the clock. "We should go to the undertakers right before noon. The staff will want to go to lunch and will leave us with the body."

That familiar dread, which Jean had blissfully been without since before her wedding day, rose back up. "The body?"

"Our dear cousin Teresa Smith, who's gone missing and matches the description of the murdered woman." He took his jacket down off the hook by the door and patted a bulging outer pocket. "I borrowed a few things from the surgery that I might need."

"You're not going to perform an autopsy?" Jean asked, appalled.

"No," he said slowly, but she didn't like the way his eyes shifted.

As much as she didn't want to look at yet another stranger's corpse, she wasn't going to let him go alone, now that she knew what he had planned. Snatching down her coat and slinging her handbag over her wrist, she took him firmly by the elbow. "Let's go, then."

~ end chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Edward Croft held back the white sheet from the face of the body, and Lucien allowed his features to crumble as he'd seen so many relatives do when he showed them the deceased. His voice quavered just enough. "Yes. That's my cousin, Teresa."

"I should contact the police," said Edward quickly.

Lucien lay a hand on his arm, stopping the bespectacled little undertaker from going to the phone. "No need. I've spoken with Sergeant Noakes this morning. I wanted to see the body to confirm it's her. But can we spend some time with her now? My wife would like to say a rosary for her."

Behind Lucien's back, Jean bit back her outrage but tried to look properly pious when the undertaker glanced at her.

Croft checked his watch. "Well—"

"Just a quarter of an hour," Lucien said with a sad smile. "Go and have your lunch. I'm accustomed to working with bodies. I'll put her back once we're finished."

The room was cramped with three people attempting not to stand too close to the corpse. Its dingy white walls closed in on them, and a vase of limp lilies on a small table filled the air with cloying scent. Thick steel doors were behind ivory curtains, attempting to hide the utilitarian function of the cold storage.

"Alright then," the undertaker said slowly, heading toward the room's door. "I'll be in my office with a sandwich and a cuppa if you need anything."

"Of course, of course," Lucien said, ushering the small man out and closing the door on his fretful face. Then he moved a chair to block the door so they'd have some warning at the undertaker's return.

"Lucien—" Jean said, then couldn't think where to begin.

He seemed to be unaware of her presence as he carefully folded back the sheet to expose Teresa Smith. Her body was dressed in a loose rough cotton hospital gown, as the habit she had worn was evidence. Her skull had been opened at the temple to examine the brain injury from the fatal blow, but the scalp and skin was now sewn closed. The Y incision on her chest was visible at the neck of the gown.

"Hello, Teresa," he murmured. "We never met in Singapore, but let's be old friends now."

Jean lowered herself to the chair, clutching her handbag close. Although she'd now seen several dead bodies, she was still deeply disturbed by the sight of the remains on the steel gurney, the skin ashen blue and the rough sutures like great tears on the skin.

Lucien shed his jacket and quickly put on a pair of rubber gloves. As he lay out the few tools that he'd purloined, Jean surprised him by retrieving a string of rosary beads from the mysterious depths of her handbag and beginning to run the beads through her fingers, her lips moving quickly.

He started to speak then refrained from doing so, but she asked, "Is there something you need from me?"

"No, no, you're busy," he said with a stiff smile.

She slipped the beads into her coat pocket. "What can I do?" she said, determined to put aside her discomfort.

"Take notes?" he suggested. Once more she dipped into her bag, and brought out the notepad and stub of a pencil from the night before, then came to stand by him.

Tipping Teresa's head carefully to expose the fatal blow site to the weak overhead light, Lucien kneeled down and peered through her matted bleached blonde hair, stiff from dried blood. "Head injury is consistent with a blow from a blunt object." He carefully parted the strands, picked out some small dark chips from the wound with tweezers and put those in one of the envelopes that he'd laid out. "These should be from the blood-stained brick which was found beside the body and was likely to be the murder weapon, but worth looking at under a microscope."

"Can you tell anything about the height or handedness of the killer from the angle of the wound?" Jean asked, pencil poised.

He glanced up at her and gave her a bright grin. "Excellent questions, Dr Blake."

She flicked his ear with her pencil and found that she was feeling more at ease.

He straightened. "She stood about five foot, and would have been wearing a pair of sturdy brogues or low heels in her habit, I would think. So let's say no taller than five foot, two inches."

She made these notations.

"The blow is from a downward angle to the left side of the head, consistent with a right-handed taller perpetrator facing the victim. However, a taller person standing farther away would have the same angle as a shorter person striking her while standing much closer."

"That doesn't negate another woman being the killer. And Patsy is a statuesque lady," Jean mused.

"Yes," Lucien agreed shortly. After turning Teresa's head to face up, saying, "My apologies," he continued his careful examination. "Both earlobes scarred, suggesting a pair of earrings having been torn from her piercings some time ago."

Jean's hand shook as she wrote this.

Lucien eased Teresa's mouth open. "Victim had worn a partial, not currently present—they probably have it in her effects. It may have gold teeth in it. It appears that the front top row of teeth were missing. The rest of her teeth are in good health, so this may have been the result of violence."

After scrutinising Teresa's still features, he carefully felt her facial bones. "Her left orbital socket was fractured at one time." Delicate fingers probed her jawline. "And her left jaw," He stood. "Collaborating either led to retribution or didn't save her in the end."

"This is so very sad," Jean said, her voice quavering.

"Yes, it always is." He glanced up at her. "I'm going to remove her gown now. Are you alright with that?"

Jean gave a sharp nod. "You must."

"I'm sorry that Dr Harvey isn't here to do this," he told the corpse. Very gently, he loosened the gown's waist strap and opened it.

Jean realised that Teresa was about her age. Like Jean, she'd been slender, but there was a fragility to her limbs and torso that Jean didn't have, like looking at a curled, dried leaf. Her ribs stood out in sharp relief but two of them on the right side of the ribcage appeared caved in. Even without Lucien telling her, Jean made a note. Then she noticed Teresa's breasts had faint scars, too symmetrical and thin to have been stretch marks. Jean took a few deep breaths through her mouth to keep the bile down but she wrote this in her notes as well.

"Yes," Lucien said, seeing her doing this. "The cuts are not deep. Just enough to terrify her."

Jean remembered the scars she'd found on Lucien's body, when she'd examined her new husband properly in the daylight. His limbs, slack and spent, arms outstretched across the luxurious bed in their ocean liner stateroom. Stupefied by spent arousal, he allowed her to trace the lines and gouges, and he had these same sort of shallow, straight lines on his inner thighs and lower groin, disappearing into his pubic hair. She hadn't dared to actually look for scars on his genitals; she couldn't bear to think of him in that sort of pain. When she gently rolled him, grumbling like one of the old farm dogs, she'd discovered whip lashes across his buttocks. Thankfully he had fallen asleep before she began to sob and didn't hear her. She'd been glad to get that out of her system without his knowledge, but now the emotions swelled in her again.

Regaining control, she moved on. "But that's a caesarean scar?" She pointed with her pencil.

"Yes," he said, moving down Teresa's body, bent close to exam her torso for more clues. He stilled. "There's sign of possible sexual activity, but I'll have to examine her further to confirm this, Jean. Are you comfortable with that?"

"Is this part of your normal autopsy?" she asked.

"Yes, men, women...children, if necessary."

Her face blanched. "It's important," she said more to herself than him. In that moment, she understood his gentleness when he made love to her; his touch so sure, but reverent.

After another murmured apology, he eased Teresa's legs apart. First using his tweezers, he removed dark pubic hairs from among her blonde ones, and carefully slipped them into one of his envelopes. "I wish I had her knickers," he said, then noticed Jean's shocked expression. "I may not be able to get a proper semen sample from the vagina swabs, but there would be much more material in her knickers," he explained apologetically.

Jean had to turn away while Lucien did his swabs and quickly sealed the cotton swab sticks in a wax envelope.

"Still, for there to be this much physical evidence, she must have had sexual intercourse immediately before she was killed. She'd not had time to wash or even clean up."

"Was she raped?" Jean asked, her near whisper tone still echoing in the empty room.

"I can't tell. Another doctor may say that because there's no sign of vaginal tearing or bruising that she's not been raped, but particularly if she was accustomed to giving herself in the hope for better treatment, she may not have struggled—just wanted it over with."

Jean wiped tears away. "This poor woman."

Tipping the body, Lucien noted bruising on the right hip and shoulder. "Not all related to lividity," he murmured. "This may be where she landed as she fell." Finally, he quickly checked Teresa's legs and feet, and seeing nothing more than signs that she wore ill-fitting shoes regularly, draped her gown back over her body. Closing her notebook, Jean stood at Teresa's head, retrieved her rosary and finished the prayers.

When she fell silent, Lucien asked, "Have you had those with you this whole time?"

Before she could answer, the door flew open, easily knocking aside the chair. In barged a tall man with slicked back blond hair and a cigarette dangling from his sneering lips. Noakes was in close pursuit, his honest face filled with concern.

"'Who the 'ell are you?" the man bellowed.

In one quick motion, Jean swept the envelopes with samples into her open handbag while Lucien blocked the interlopers' view by stepping forward, offering his outstretched hand with a big smile. "Dr and Mrs Blake, at your service."

~ end chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

DI Rory Flowers shook the hand offered to him and felt instant distrust. This Aussie's grin was too wide, his teeth too bright, and yet his eyes had a wariness that Flowers was all too familiar with in his line of work. In contrast, the woman behind Blake had a level grey gaze and gave only the briefest of smiles in a manner that reminded Flowers of his no nonsense aunties.

The doctor kept smiling. "You're probably wondering what we're doing—"

Sergeant Noakes, his jaw clenched, introduced them. "DI Flowers, this is Dr and Mrs Blake. They're staying at Nonnatus House, helping out—"

Edward Croft peered around the tall detective, his face flushed with indignation. "You told me this was your cousin," burst out the little undertaker. Peter Noakes frowned too.

Lucien glanced down at the body. "Why don't we pop her away and move this elsewhere, shall we?"

Croft pushed Lucien aside and fussily straightened the shroud on the body. "You may use the reception room at the front," he said.

Peter led the way, gloom emanating from his slumped shoulders. Flowers brought up the rear so he could assess this new wrinkle in the investigation. Nothing was adding up in this crazy case, and a pair of colonial body snatchers would fit right in with a slutty nun.

Blake was shorter than Rory, but most men were. He was easily twice as wide as the slender policeman, with solid arms and broad shoulders. Even his neck was thick, and Rory decided this bloke warranted care if it came to fisticuffs. His wife, by contrast, was slim and nearly as tall, and seemed to quiver with an energy that came out in the swing of her trim hips. Rory's gaze lingered there in momentary appreciation, even if she was as old as his mum.

Once in the small room, Lucien made sure Jean was seated comfortably before turning that high wattage smile back on the policemen. "You'll be wanting some sort of explanation."

Rory tipped his head to Peter, signalling that he expected the sergeant to take notes. Containing his irritation, Peter took a seat beside the desk and pulled out his notebook.

Lucien stayed by Jean's chair, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder. She gripped her handbag tightly and gave the men another strained smile. "I'm afraid that we misled Mr Croft," Lucien said.

Remaining standing, Flowers shoved his hands deep in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "You don't say," he drawled.

"Teresa Smith isn't my cousin," Blake admitted.

"But you know her name?" Peter interjected.

"As it happens, Mattie O'Brien was telling us about the body—the local police had everyone at Nonnatus House look at the photograph, you remember," Lucien addressed Noakes.

"Yes," Peter said, shooting Flowers a quick look. "I showed it in hopes of identifying the victim."

"Mattie O'Brien..." Flowers said slowly. "The ginger girl? Not the tall one, but the little bird with the Aussie accent."

"Miss O'Brien, yes. The auburn-haired young lady." Blake tugged down his waistcoat. "She described the unusual scars on the woman's earlobes. It rang a bell."

Flowers remembered the corpse. Her eyes closed, hair lank and skin waxen, the face looked very dead. Yes, there were deep grooves on her rather large earlobes; the scars were noticeable.

"At the end of the war, I took part in clearing prisoners from the camps on the Malay Peninsula. Teresa Smith was one of them. The scars were a result of her earrings being torn from her lobes by the guards. They only ask once, you see."

"And it just so happened that you figured this woman Miss O'Brien told you about was the woman you saw near twenty years ago?" Flowers asked skeptically.

Blake shrugged. "Mattie and I worked together for years. She lodged in our home. Her descriptive skills are excellent, and I never forget a face."

Lighting a cigarette, Flowers peered at the couple through a cloud of smoke. The doctor just kept smiling, but his wife was suddenly very interested in the clasp of her handbag.

"And you and the body ended up in the same district of London, on the same day, at this—" Flowers looked at his watch. "—same moment."

"Life is a great mystery." The doctor held his hands wide.

"Your passports," Flowers said curtly.

Mrs Blake carefully dug the documents from her handbag and passed them to Sergeant Noakes to transcribe the numbers and entry dates.

"You say her name is Teresa Smith. Who is she?"

"That I couldn't say. She was English, said her husband had been a clerk for a shipping company before the war. They planned to return home but I didn't hear if they did straight away."

"What's her husband's name?"

"She only called him Mr Smith. There were several doctors and I'd guess he saw one of them; I didn't."

Frustrated, Flowers asked, "Anything else?"

Finished jotting down their information, Noakes handed back the passports. Dr Blake helped his wife to her feet. "I'm afraid not. May we go?" They were already moving toward the door.

"Digger Croft says you got here a bit before noon. Noakes and me walked in at half past. Long time to be looking at a corpse's face and deciding she's some patient from twenty years ago."

"Fifteen." Blake's gaze was steady.

Mrs Blake spoke for the first time. "It was for me. I wanted to say a rosary." She opened her bag and removed her beads. "Dr Blake is my second husband. My first died in the Solomons, far from his home and alone." She raised her chin. "Mrs Smith is alone here. If her husband were in Poplar, surely he would miss her by now. If her children still lived, wouldn't they seek out their mother? I've only been here a day, but I've seen how close neighbours are. If she had friends, wouldn't they have contacted the police when they heard of a dead woman?" She slipped her rosary back in her bag. "She needed my prayers."

Blake smiled at her, his eyes bright with tears.

Without a reaction, Flowers asked: "You're staying at Nonnatus House? How long?"

"Through the week at least," said Blake. "Then we're onto Edinburgh."

"Don't leave London without notifying me."

"We shan't," Mrs Blake said firmly and swept from the room, her husband obediently in tow.

When the door closed, Peter cleared his throat, but didn't speak. Flowers stared at the door for a long minute, then said, "She's got 'is stones in that 'andbag next to 'er beads," his missing H's exposing his origins.

Peter just blinked like the tortoise he resembled and Flowers told him: "Buzz off to the station, Noakes. First thing, ring up the Home Office and check the story on those two."

Sitting at the desk, Rory flipped open his notebook and began to review the jottings. This was the first murder he was leading after his recent promotion. He'd never expected to return to the East End after packing his cardboard suitcase and catching the bus to attend Hendon. But his Super obviously thought it would take a cockney to catch a cockney killer, he thought with a twist of his long mouth.

And who had he met as soon as he entered Nonnatus House but Sister Evangelina, who never forgot anyone.

"Whitey Flowers!" she'd cried out.

With his pale fly-away hair and last name, the nickname of Whitey Flowers had come easy, then it was a natural progression in the way of the cockney to Peony, which had led to the unfortunate Pee-pee and Wee-wee. Another thing that he'd left behind on these stinking streets.

"Sister Evangelina," he'd said flatly. "If you'll come through, I'm interviewing everyone about this murder."

"A policeman," she'd said approvingly. "I knew you were meant for bigger things. Your mum would have been so proud."

He sat at the desk that Sister Julienne had offered him, and motioned to the chair before it. "Yes." He took out the photograph of the victim. "Do you recognise this woman?"

The old nun finally noted his coldness and harrumphed. "Sergeant Noakes already had us look at this unfortunate lady."

"I'll ask that you look again."

Sister Evangelina leaned forward and had a squint. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Not a patient? She's had at least one baby."

Picking up the picture, Evangelina looked very closely. "No, not at all."

Rory took it back. "Right. Where were you on Wednesday night?"

"Excuse me?"

"From 5PM until 3AM, if you please."

She flared her nostrils and he braced himself for one of her rebukes.

He softened his question. "Were you out on the streets? Did you see anything?"

"I don't take night call duty very often anymore," she admitted reluctantly.

"Who was out of Nonnatus then?"

"Are you suggesting that one of our nurses, one of my sisters, would have anything to do with this?" she gasped in full outrage.

"If you've seen the things I've seen—"

"I've seen more than you'll ever see, young man," she said, rising from the chair.

"There's no reason to flip yo' wimple," he said mildly, secretly enjoying winding the old biddy up for all the times she'd tried to tell him his business when he was a boy.

True to form, she blazed at him: "I brought you into this world, Whitey, and I can take you out," and with that, stormed from the office.

To the quivering slammed door, Rory said, "You may not have done it, but you certainly have a murderous personality."

After that start, he interviewed a tiny quiet nun who had been out on a delivery that night and had paid attention to nothing but her front tire on the ride back; a reedy sort of nurse who'd turned in early after working all day with a dawn call-out and couldn't tell him anything; and an old bat of a nurse who was very concise with her details.

From her, he learned that besides Sister Mary Cynthia and Nurse Barbara Gilbert, Nurse Patsy Mount and Sister Evangelina—interesting, he thought—had missed dinner that night.

"But I retired to my room early, and can't tell you when they returned," she said carefully.

"Who do you share with?"

"Miss Gilbert."

He noted this, and thanked her. Sister Julienne had supplied him with the logbook as well as the office, and he could confirm the movements of those missing.

He'd tried to bring in Nurse Mount, but she was hurrying off on a delivery, and tossed excuses over her shoulder. He wrote her name down to interview in the future.

Next, he interviewed a temporary lodger, Mattie O'Brien. He thought her a hot little number, with her curvy shape in snug trousers and form-fitting mohair jumper, but she did not return his warm smile and smooth greeting. Stuck-up, he decided, which being a colonial, was rich of her. No better than him, with those broad vowels and garbled consonants.

"Right then," he said coldly, settling behind the desk. "Wednesday night."

"What about it." She crossed her lovely legs at the thigh like any tart. When he raised his gaze to her eyes, she was glaring at him with a sneer on her pretty lips.

"You were at dinner."

"Yes." She folded her arms tightly.

He could be short too. "Then what?"

"I went out."

He raised his eyebrows. She signed dramatically.

"I went to a cocktail thing at a friend's flat in Bloomsbury. I got back on the number 12 bus around 1 AM."

"That stops up at Market Street. Did you see anything on the walk to Nonnatus House?"

"No."

"Not a single person?"

"Well, yes. I assume you meant something related to the murder."

"How would you know if anything was tied to the crime?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it before telling him, "There was a constable checking shop doors, a few delivery vans stopping here and there, two or three courting couples, the usual drunken blokes leaving the Black Sail, and..." She went deep into thought. "I did see a woman in a dark gown...dark hair, or I suppose it could have been a headcover...she could have been a nun. Just at the end of Cotton Lane. It's not unusual to see the nuns out at night on deliveries, so I didn't think anything of it."

Cotton Lane was where the victim had been found. He took down this note. "But you didn't recognise them as any particular nun?"

"No. And I didn't do a bed check when I got back," she said, the sarcasm returning. Then her head tipped and she gave him a warm look that had him touching his tie. "So the victim died around midnight?"

"Not if you saw her in the lane at one," he pointed out.

"Are we done?" Mattie rose before he could dismiss her. Australians seemed to be in a hurry.

"Yes." He finished his notes. "Send in anyone else you find out there."

Settling into the chair before Sister Julienne's desk, Trixie looked the police detective over with the quick but thorough evaluation as she did with all men under sixty. She liked what she saw. Tall—very tall. A bit too thin, but his build was perfect for his suit with narrow lapels, slim trouser legs and skinny tie. His blond hair tried to flop over his brow and he brushed it away with lovely long fingers. His eyes were a startling dark-rimmed blue. Overall, she approved—and then he spoke.

A mangled sort of middle-class accent...he was trying to cover some even coarser dialect, and not particularly succeeding. She pasted one of her most disinterested smiles and listened to his questions with only half her attention.

"No, no," she said, glancing at the photograph of the victim. "I told Peter. Never seen her before." She examined her nails. A bit of a chip in her lacquer. Sensing his dissatisfaction, she repeated, "No, I've not seen her." At his deep sigh, she took pity on him. "No one's going to recognise her like that. She looks simply horrid. At least brush her hair, perhaps some makeup—she'd look as she did every day and someone may know her from shops or something."

"Thank you, Nurse Franklin. I'll do just that," Rory had said to Trixie.

Once finished with his review, Flowers gave his request to Digger Croft for the corpse to be tarted up and photographed. He'd bugger off and see if that flat-foot Noakes found anything out from the Home Office.

But Peter Noakes hadn't escaped the Blakes. They had loitered outside the undertakers, and greeted the sergeant. He'd have none of their friendliness. "I've got to get back to the station," he said stiffly.

"Of course," Lucien said warmly, seemingly impervious to Peter's manner. "Just one thing—"

Peter made the mistake of stopping and waiting.

"Where was the body found?"

"What?"

Jean peeked around Lucien's shoulder and gave Peter a smile that telegraphed: humour him, please.

"Teresa Smith. Where was she discovered?"

"What do you need to know that for?"

Jean started to speak, but Peter wasn't going to be bamboozled again. "And don't tell me it's to say a prayer over the spot."

"You've got us. Morbid curiosity, I'm afraid."

Disgusted, Noakes gave them directions shortly, and stalked away.

"Lucien," Jean murmured, deeply ashamed, but he was already heading down the street. However, accustomed to wide avenues set in grids, they were soon lost in the twisted lanes of Poplar. Frustrated, they paused on a corner.

Lucien pushed back his hat and was scratching his head when a cheerful voice called from behind them, "Dr and Mrs Blake! Are you lost?"

Sister Winifred pedalled up on her bicycle. After explaining they were lost, she hopped off, and offered to lead the way, rolling the bike along.

When she turned down a narrow lane, she checked around nervously, aware this spot was often used by street prostitutes to serve customers. "Why did you want to go here?" she asked.

"The body was found in this lane," Lucien said cheerfully, already scanning the litter-strewn cobblestones.

"Oh, my," breathed Sister Winifred, even more unsettled.

Now Lucien was focused on her. "Would you be able to help us, Sister?"

"If I can," she said promptly.

The couple exchanged glances. Jean spoke: "We need to understand how Teresa Smith died."

"You know who she is?"

"Yes," Lucien said, "we've been speaking with the police."

He stooped down and peered across the cobblestones. "Here's a bloodstain. This would have been where the head lay." Then he shed his overcoat and carefully lay it near the stain. "Sister, how tall are you?"

"Just five feet in my stockings," Sister Winifred gulped out.

"And those are standard footwear for nuns, yes?" he asked, motioning to her sturdy brogues.

She nodded, feeling giddy with excitement.

Jean had been looking around. "One of these bricks, do you think?" she asked, holding a fragment of old masonry that she'd found against the crumpled wall of a bombed out building.

Lucien carefully checked the edge of the brick. "Exactly." He held his arm out to Sister Winifred. "If you could stand here..." Taking her elbow, he led her close the overcoat. "And Jean, here—"

Jean stood before Sister Winifred and held the brick above their heads. Lucien pulled her back a step. "Just like that. A blow will strike her temple at the right angle."

Tossing aside the brick, Jean instead brought the edge of her gloved hand down to tap Sister Winifred's head lightly, on the left side where the wimple covered her hair, but the nun still felt stunned with the thrill.

Lucien's hands were on her shoulders. "Now, if you could lie down on my coat...here..." He helped her to recline, quickly shedding his suit jacket to put under her head. "If you could take your right side—" He looked up to Jean. "Those bruises on Teresa's right side. I think she fell to it first."

"Those were her only marks beside the head injury, right?" Jean asked.

"Yes, no scrapes on her arms or palms. I think she was dead as soon as she was struck and fell limp to the ground, thus having only the bruising on the hip and shoulder where she landed."

"So the killer had strength."

"She was struck at the thinnest spot of the skull. It could be medical knowledge, or it could be blind luck."

Lying on the chilly cobblestones, even with his thick coat's protection, Sister Winifred shivered. The Blakes stood over her, seemingly forgetting her presence, as they were intent on each other. The nun loved Hitchcock films, and at this moment, she had another sort of chill pass through her as watching the flickering images on screen. Was this the moment in the film where the apparently kind and helpful couple suddenly turned out to be the killers— Her eyes darted, seeking escape.

"What's that?" she said.

Lucien crouched down by her. "What do you see?"

"There's something shiny stuck in that bit of drainpipe," she said, reaching for the opening in the rough wall by her shoulder.

He covered her fingers. "Wait, let me." He held his hand up. "Jean, may I have your glove?"

Jean tugged off one glove and handed it to him. He bent over to reach into the pipe's opening, and Sister Winifred found herself staring square into his bum, tight against the straining fabric of his trousers.

Blushing furiously, she scrambled to stand, and Jean assisted her. She tried not to notice that Mrs Blake was fighting a smile.

"Have you got it, Lucien?" Jean asked as she brushed off Sister Winifred's habit.

He held the object up. It was a large silver button with a cross on the surface.

Jean took it with her gloved hand and looked at the back. "The thread is broken, not frayed. It didn't just fall off; it was pulled off."

"Oh, that's off of a nurse's cape," Sister Winifred offered. "The capes our midwives wear."

Lucien and Jean exchanged a look. "You don't say," Lucien said blandly, and popped it into his waistcoat pocket.

~ end chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

Lucien eased open the wardrobe door and its creak made Jean jump. She was on watch at the door of Trixie and Patsy's room.

"Lucien, hurry," she hissed.

He flipped through the garments quickly until he found a nurse's cape. Jean dared to come over. "These are Trixie's things," she told him.

"How can you tell?"

"Patsy wouldn't wear that shade of red," Jean said with a roll of her eyes.

"Of course," Lucien murmured and moved onto the next wardrobe. This one was more promising. Bright green satins, plaids—this had to be Patsy's. He found her cape and pulled it out...but the large silver button which held the neck closed with a toggle fastener was there.

He was surprised. "The button's there."

Jean came up behind him, leaving her watch post again. "Let me see." Carrying the cape to the window, she tugged the button. It was firmly fastened.

"Fetch the other one," she asked Lucien.

He brought Trixie's cape over.

"Look here," Jean said. She turned the button on Patsy's cape and showed him the thread. "Now look at Trixie's button."

He turned that button. The thread on this one was grey that matched the wool of the cape. Patsy's cape's button was held by a white thread.

"The repair could have been done any time," he mused.

"I still say it's recent." Jean tugged the button. "See how tight it is compared to this one." She pulled at Trixie's button and it was looser from use. Turning Patsy's cape inside out, she showed him where the spare button would have been sewn into the lining. "Trixie's is still there, but not Patsy's."

"I doubt this would hold up in court," Lucien said, putting Trixie's cape away.

Regretfully, Jean hung Patsy's cape back in the wardrobe. "Yes, but Patsy is hiding something. Is it this?"

Through the ajar door, they heard footfall coming up the stairs. Looking at each other in fear, they scurried to the doorway and slipped through, pulling it shut behind them.

They didn't have time to make it back to their room. Lucien pulled Jean into his arms, his mouth covering hers just as she gasped. Her fear vanished as she was lost in his kiss, light-headed as though diving into deep water. Grasping for a safe harbour, she slid her arms under his jacket, around his his sturdy middle, and held fast. Four weeks after the wedding, and she'd still have moments of saying, he's mine. All mine.

"Oh, my!" squeaked the little nun who came across them. Flustered, she darted away before she could wonder why they were leaning against the door to Patsy and Trixie's room. Only after she was gone did Lucien release Jean and the doorknob that he was holding shut.

"Safe," Lucien murmured smugly.

She pushed him away. "Yes. That's important," she said stiffly.

He quirked a smile and snared her arm, pulling her to him again. Easily, her hand cupped the back of his neck and she swayed into his body, seeking his lips.

When their mouths finally eased apart, their foreheads remained touching. Lucien's eyes shifted toward their room's door. "Say, perhaps we could—" His arms were loosely around her waist, but she could still feel his arousal against her belly.

Relief washed over her—he hadn't lost interest—but she had to say regretfully, "I need to start supper, and you should take advantage of this quiet time to test the evidence from the body."

He nodded but then gave her one more breathtaking kiss first, rubbing his beard along her cheek as he pulled away, the burn causing her skin to tingle deliciously.

Rory returned to Scotland Yard, feeling instantly more relieved out of the East End with all its unpleasant memories. In his office, he phoned Noakes and told him to expect the updated photograph of the corpse.

"Show it around," he said, "toss out the name Teresa Smith and see what you find."

When he hung up the phone, there was a man standing in his office, patiently waiting. He'd somehow silently opened the closed door and entered.

Rory half-rose. The man held up his hand. "No need," he said cheerfully, with the ease of a man accustomed to being deferred to.

"Who're you?"

"You called us." The man sat before Rory's desk and tugged his French cuffs out of the sleeves of his suit jacket.

Returning to his chair, Rory lit a cigarette to cover while he thought. "Home Office?" he guessed.

The man didn't answer, or give his name. "You had some questions about Lucien Blake."

"Right. We've got this body, you see—"

"He's not involved."

"He's sticking his nose in—"

"That doesn't surprise me." The man smiled ruefully. "But if you're looking for a killer, he's not the man."

Rory ground out his cigarette. "I'm to take your word for that? Because you bring your posh accent and old school tie in here and say so? He's some mate of yours?"

The man quirked a smile. "Last time I saw that Aussie, he called me a right Pommie bastard and told me to bugger off. No, we weren't friends. More like comrades."

"He works for the Home Office?"

That earned a barking laugh. "Not likely. Frankly, I'm surprised to hear he's alive. He went about every job with a whisky bottle in one hand and a hair-trigger gun in another. If he was going to kill anyone, it was himself."

"That wasn't the man I met," Rory said, puzzled. "He's a jolly sort, doctor, here on his honeymoon."

"Married again?" The man digested that information.

"Wife's pretty sharp too." Rory leered. "And has a nice arse."

"I'm sure," the man murmured and stood. He would seem to believe the interview was over.

"What about Teresa Smith? Is that really her name?"

"Who's she?"

"The victim."

The man held out his hands. "We only got a call about Lucien Blake."

Rory silently cursed Noakes. "I'm asking now then. Blake claims she was a prisoner of war in the Malay Peninsula. When would she have returned to the UK? "

"Call your local immigration office," the man said, going to the office door. "Cheerio," was his parting, and he was gone as silently as he'd appeared.

Rory snatched up his phone. If this spook from the Home Office didn't want to help, he'd take the man's advice. After some run-around, he finally had someone pull the records for the entry of Lucien and Jean Blake. What he heard only made the situation more confusing. "A police surgeon?" he repeated and it was confirmed.

Putting in the request for any records for women named Teresa Smith entering Britain since 1945, he hung up. Lighting another cigarette off the butt, he asked himself, why would a police surgeon not identify himself to the local police?

There was a small, basic laboratory at Nonnatus House. Lucien simply wanted to examine the foreign hairs under the microscope and confirm they did not match Teresa's, and to determine a blood type from the vaginal swabs. This was frustratingly common type O-positive, but at least it was something.

While he worked, Jean slipped in with a large leatherbound book under her arm. "Here's the midwives' logbook," she whispered. She quickly flipped to the day of the murder and checked movements.

"Do you really think anyone here had anything to do with the crime?" asked Lucien as he carefully cleaned up his work.

"I want to check on Patsy."

Her finger ran down the columns. "She returned from a birth at four, as she said. Then she checks out at five for leave."

"A date?"

"But why not tell us that?" asked Jean. "Unless she's seeing someone whom the nuns wouldn't approve of? Or who wouldn't provide her an alibi. A married man, perhaps?"

"Hmmm," Lucien said.

"I better get this back," Jean said, her shoulders slumped. "Then I'll start on supper."

Phyllis was on the phone at the call board when Jean returned. She quickly hid the book behind her back, but Phyllis was too busy making notes to notice.

As soon as she hung up, she asked, "Is Dr Blake here, Mrs Blake?"

"Yes, he is," Jean said, shifting to obscure the spot where the logbook would lie, and managed to place it there behind her back.

"Would he be willing to come out on a birth with me? Mrs Connelly's baby was in a breech position at her last check but we're hoping it's turned. If not, I'd like to have a doctor along."

Lucien appeared before Jean could reply. "A call-out?"

Phyllis succinctly filled him in as she moved them to the dispensary, and quickly packed her instrument bag. Lucien grabbed a few things as well, ready to help. He took a moment to give Jean a peck goodbye.

In the kitchen, she found a large colander and headed to the garden she'd noted behind Nonnatus House. But when she came down the stairs, she found Mattie leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette.

"Mattie," she gasped in shock. "What in the world are you doing?"

Mattie looked around, then down to the cigarette. Her chin went up in defiance. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"When did you pick up such a filthy habit?" scolded Jean. "I got Lucien to stop, and now I'll have to work on you," she said bossily.

Mattie took a deep drag on the cigarette, then coughed slightly. "He hasn't stopped, you know. He just hides it from you. Like he does everything."

"Mattie!" Jean clutched the colander to her chest like a shield.

Mattie had had a particularly difficult session with a client. A man suffering so greatly from shell shock that he lost control of his bowels when distressed, and his wife was humiliating him by hanging his soiled pants out the window, thinking this shame would make him stop. She couldn't be angry at the wife who'd endured this for years, but suddenly all her frustrations with Jean were very easy to express.

"You like to feel that you've got him under control, have us all in line—"

"Of course not!" Jean said, shaking her head.

"I want to be like you," Mattie said, sagging against the wall. "I want to not need any help, be strong—" She tossed away her butt.

"What's wrong, love?" Jean reached for Mattie's hand, but the younger woman clenched her fingers together.

Might as well put it all out, now that she felt close to hysteria. "Why didn't you tell me about Mei Lin Blake returning the to Ballarat?"

This knocked Jean back. "What...why..."

"I had to hear about it from Sharon Richmond. Meanwhile, your letters were full of how the garden was doing, cases Lucien worked on. Nothing about the nightmare you must have been going through—"

"I didn't want to worry you!"

"You didn't want to look at as though you weren't in control," Mattie accused her.

"I was in hell!" Jean told her. "I wasn't going to tell you that, from so far away!"

"If you couldn't tell me, who could you tell?"

Jean turned her back to Mattie.

The hunch of her shoulders broke Mattie. "I'm so sorry, Jean. I'm sorry you had to go through that alone, and I'm sorry that I'm being a right bitch to you now. It's been a rough day," she said lamely.

Jean found Mattie's hand and squeezed it tight. "No, I should have told you." She wanted to say more, but the words stuck in her throat. Her agony, her fear...her anger... She blinked away all those dark feelings. "I'd better pick these peas and get them on to cook," she said, forcing her voice to be bright.

Frustrated, Mattie watched Jean make her way through the spring vegetable patch to the netting with the pea vines. She trailed behind. She could see how much it cost Jean to have spoken, but she needed to know more.

"Where's Mei Lin now?" she asked. This seemed like a comfortable topic for Jean, who easily chatted while she picked the peas and then shelled them quickly, filling Mattie in about Mei Lin's move to Hong Kong, how Li has had joined her, and they were living happily together. Hearing her sanitised version of events, Mattie didn't tell her that another chum, Hazel, had clipped out the articles about Lucien divorcing on the grounds of drunkenness. She needed another cigarette badly, but decided to avoid that confrontation as well.

Dinner was on the table before Phyllis and Lucien returned, flushed with the story of their successful birth.

Mattie was determined to make up for her earlier outburst. "So you're ready to become a maternity ward doctor, Lucien?"

"Only if Nurse Crane is available to keep me in line," Lucien said as he spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate.

Phyllis preened, or as close to preening as the sensible woman could manage. A deep harrumph was heard from Sister Evangeline's end of the table.

Lucien noticed that Jean seemed quiet. "Delicious meal, darling," he said carefully.

Everyone at the table chimed in, and Jean waved off their gratitude. Lucien found himself seeking Mattie's gaze; she always told him what was bothering Jean, but the girl kept her head down. He remained concerned.

When the table was cleared, and everyone moved into the parlour for recreation. Jean brought out the lab coat which she was going to alter for Lucien, and there was general amusement as she had him model it, and pinned the alterations up. But while she settled down to her task, he was restless, unable to settle to read the evening newspapers or listen to radio in the company of so many women.

Finally, Lucien announced, "I think I'll head down to the corner pub for a swift half."

He almost changed his mind when he saw Jean's worried expression. Leaning over for a quick kiss, he murmured, "I'll see if I can sus anything out from the local lads."

"Of course, dear," she said, smiling reassuringly. "Enjoy your evening."

Mattie looked to and fro between Jean and Lucien. "Go on," she mouthed to Lucien.

Lucien had little luck in the pub. He was quickly buttonholed by a large robust man by the name of Fred Buckle who was the Nonnatus House handyman, but also the sort of fellow who knew every coming and going in the district. Normally, this would be exactly who he needed to contact, but Fred's interest appeared to be with Lucien himself.

"Ol' Digger Croft said you were looking at that body—"

"Really, I can't say," Lucien said quickly. "Doctors can't talk about their cases."

"She can't be your patient, being dead an' all, am I right?"

Lucien dodged; Fred parried. It was exhausting, and not very fruitful for either man. Finally Lucien rose. "I'd best get to my bed. Early morning, and all that."

On the pavement, Lucien found himself lingering. A lit newsagent's kiosk caught his eye. He stopped in and bought a pack of cigarettes. Strolling along the waterfront, he smoked one, enjoying the forbidden taste. He stopped to lean on the railing, watching the reflection of ships' lights in the black oily water.

He felt another man join him, and was immediately alert. Damn those old reflexes.

Still, he was surprised when a mild voice said, "Hallo, Lucie."

His mind quickly filtered through all his past acquaintances. "Hello, Trev."

"Nice night for it," Trevor Highgate said, lighting his own cigarette.

"What can I do you for?" Lucien tossed his cigarette into the water. It was suddenly bitter.

"The police have come asking questions."

"Who are you working for now?" Lucien asked, side-stepping.

"Behind a desk these days. With the Home Office," Trevor said with his clipped public school accent.

"And you gave them answers?"

Now it was Trevor's turn to deflect. "And who do you work for now, Lucie?"

"Me?" Lucien turned and leaned against the railing, giving a sincere grin. "I'm just a simple country doctor, Trev."

Trevor squinted at him. "Who works with the police."

"I just help out in my capacity as police surgeon. Took over from my father."

Breathing in deep from his cigarette, Trevor hummed.

"Why has the Home Office got me on their radar?"

"The coppers question why you're poking your nose in a murder," Trevor said with a shrug. "Had me wondering if this is something I should be concerned about."

"Not that I know of," Lucien said cautiously. "Looking into it for a friend."

"Alright." Trevor nodded to the nearby Black Sails Pub. "Let's drink on that."

Nestled in the inglenook with glasses of scotch, the men visibly relaxed, their business concluded.

Then Trevor asked: "That Met dick said you've remarried. Never found your wife?"

Lucien lit another cigarette. "No, I didn't. She finally found me," he admitted ruefully. "But...it wasn't the same. Something I'd wanted for years, and when confronted with the reality, we weren't those people anymore." He drained his glass, and the barmaid smoothly moved in to bring him another.

Trevor focused on the swirl of his own drink. His wife had been that constant object in his life, that no matter how far he travelled, or what he did, she'd be there when he returned. Only to find that when he was finally posted in London, that she had no use for him at all. She didn't believe in divorce, so she was now this shadow who passed down the hall past his bedroom, his study, the dining room where he ate alone while she attended her teas, Women's Institute meetings, and gallery openings. "Yes," he said.

"But she's safe, my daughter's safe, and that's all I ever wanted."

"You must have wanted something more. There's a new Mrs Blake?"

This time Lucien's smile was sincere. "Yes. Jean. She's much too good for me, but she seems to be attached to me, and who'm I to turn away a wonderful thing?"

Trevor raised his glass in a toast, and they clicked their drinks.

"Married life seems to suit you. Don't have that lean and hungry look anymore," Trev said, nodding to Lucien's waistline.

Lucien just laughed and patted his belly. "My wife's an excellent cook, yes," and Trev could only feel a stab of envy at his comfortable happy life. Over several more glasses, the two men did what old comrades do, and went through the names of common allies and enemies—who was alive, who was dead, who'd failed, who'd gone onto glory despite neither intelligence or skill. Eventually, Lucien blearily checked his pocket watch.

"Lord, you are an old country doctor, Lucie. That watch."

Lucien could only manage a snort. "Gettin' late. The wife will have m'ears." He pushed back from the table and stood, wavering. He hadn't drunk this much in months.

"Oh, speaking of the ol' job..." Trevor fumbled through his pockets. "Since it looks like the Aussies aren't sniffin' around our gov'ment secrets, here you go," he said rather confusingly.

Lucien took the offered folded paper. Opening it, he squinted. "Captain Harold Grimes." A Poplar address was under the name.

"Teresa Smith knocked around the Far East in various English ex-pat communities after the war, likely as a prostitute. Wonder we didn't run across her at some point."

"So who's Captain Grimes?"

"Her patron, manner o' speakin'. They arrived in Southampton in 1958. Grimes has a house on Usher Road, but Smith seems to have disappeared. She's not listed as a resident there. All I can pass along."

Lucien put out his hand. "Thank you, Trev."

"That's Pommie Bastard to you," Trevor said with a chuckle.

Laughing, Lucien pocketed the slip of paper. "Have you passed this onto Flowers too?"

"No, but he's hot on your trail. I can't protect you more than I have." Trevor stood and took Lucien's hand. "Take care of yourself, Blake. There's not too many of us left, and frankly, I'm shocked you're one of the last left standing."

"Guess I'm just lucky," Lucien said slowly, conflict on his face. He clapped Trevor's shoulder in one last show of affection.

Lucien slipped through the heavy door of Nonnatus House and quietly made his way up the stairs to his room. He turned the knob and slowly opened the door, careful not to squeak the hinges.

Jean had left a small lamp on for him across the room. She lay with her back to the door, shoulders hunched, looking angry even as he thought she was sleeping from deep, steady breathes. He was suddenly struck that he was drunk and he stank of both whisky and cigarettes. If there'd been anywhere else for him to sleep, he would have left her in peace. And there was no chance to bathe, as he'd discovered the plumbing was prone to screeching and burping as the water was delivered to the bath. With no other option, he fumbled out of his clothes, waiting with each stumble and thump as he changed into his bedclothes for Jean to rise up and demand an explanation.

He settled to his side of the bed with a barely contained groan, grateful for the bedcovers which separated them. As foul as he was at the moment, it was for the best. He had to roll for a more comfortable position, and Jean appeared to sleep on. Why didn't she wake, carpet him, and be done with it?

Despite his body's exhaustion, his mind continued to tumble. Talking with Highgate had brought it all back. The glimmer of neon lights in dark streets. The jerking travel on trains, stepping out into a different, dangerous world with each stop. The stench of brothels, that specific swarm of cheap perfume and male ejaculate. It had been a life that he'd hated and needed. The uncertain excitement made his heart thud with an erratic beat.

For a brief shattering moment, Jean and the security she represented seemed very far away, divided from him by more than the separate bed.

~ end chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

The bright morning light woke Lucien. Cracking his crusted eyelids with a groan, he blearily focused and saw a glass of water and aspirin sitting on the bedside table. Peering around, there was no sign of Jean, nor did he hear any sound outside the room. After swallowing a couple of tablets, he checked the time. He'd missed breakfast and would be late for the weekly clinic if he didn't get to it.

Ignoring his still pounding head, he snatched up the clothes that Jean had laid out for him. After he bathed and dressed, he was clattering down the stairs when he nearly bowled over a young nurse carrying a large box.

He grabbed the box with one hand and steadied her with the other, giving his apologies.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going," she said with a soft Welsh accent.

"Can I take this up for you?" he asked.

"That would be very kind. It got a bit heavy between here and the bus stop." She pushed her dark hair off her flushed face. "I'll be moving in soon, and thought I'd drop off some of my things on my half day."

"Let me pop this away for you then," Lucien said, disregarding the time. "Will the linen cupboard do for now?"

"If you're Dr Blake, I think you're staying in what will be my room."

"We can put it there then." He elbowed up the door to his room. "I'm Lucien," he offered over his shoulder.

"I'm Delia. Delia Busby."

"You're joining the midwives here?" he asked as he set the box in a corner.

"No, I'll still work at the London," she said cautiously. "The lodging that I live in is being torn down. Sister Julienne offered me a place here. My mother won't let me live alone," she added resentfully.

He gave her the encouraging smile that he was finding effective on this investigation.

"I'm a friend of Patsy's," she admitted.

"How nice for you. All chums together," he said, turning his thoughtful gaze away before she could see it.

She excused herself before he could question her more, saying she needed to get to work. Reminded that he had to do the same, he followed her down the stairs, but looked around for the lab coat that Jean had altered.

Jean stuck her head from the kitchen where she was washing up. "Here it is," she said, reading his mind. She gave him the folded coat. "Breakfast is all cleared away, but here you go," she told him as she handed him a slice of toast folded around bacon, followed by a kiss.

He informed her, "I've got an address on the man who brought Teresa Smith to London-" before taking a big bite of his breakfast.

"What? How?" Jean asked.

Skirting the question, he said, "Meet me at noon, and we'll check this lead out," and kissed her again before hurrying off.

Clattering down the stairs, he stopped on the pavement, realising that he had no idea where the clinic was. Just when he was about to find someone to give him directions, Mattie approached on her bicycle.

"Lost, little boy?" she called out, hopping off her bike.

"Yes!" he admitted with a laugh. "I need to get to the clinic."

"My next appointment is that way. I'll walk with you."

Crossing the street, the morning sun hit Lucien's eyes, and he blinked painfully. He was surprised at his body's reaction to last night's alcohol, but then realised he hadn't had that much to drink since the fatal day he'd enjoyed a taste of Angelo's grappa, had a confrontation with Norm Baker, and had his divorce splashed all over the Courier. And of course, ending with Jean seeing him in that condition.

"Got in late last night," Mattie mentioned.

"Yes. I ran into a mate at a pub."

"Here?"

"Small world."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. It felt as though no time had passed; Jean and Lucien were still keeping themselves to themselves. "How's Jean this morning?"

"I left her baking biscuits. She'll be along to the clinic in a bit."

"I mean her mood," Mattie said with some impatience.

"Fine. Should she be otherwise?" They stopped at a corner to wait for traffic before crossing and Lucien looked at Mattie quizzically.

"I carpeted her yesterday, about your wife-about Mei Lin," Mattie admitted. She felt even more ashamed now that she said it aloud.

Lucien stopped. "What? Why in the world-"

"Neither of you said anything," Mattie protested.

"She didn't write to you?" Lucien rubbed his beard, aggravated. Jean had been so alone, and he'd expected that at least she could pour her heart out to Mattie. It seemed not.

"No," Mattie confirmed. She stopped. "Here's the clinic."

"Thank you," he said stiffly. Then asked, "Did she say anything? I mean, about what happened with Mei Lin."

"Just that you've divorced and she's now living with Li."

He tugged down his waistcoat. "It was very difficult for Jean."

"And you?"

But Mattie got the same brickwall of a response from Lucien. He simply smiled, thanked her again for her help, and joined the stream of patients entering the clinic. Sighing in frustration, she mounted her bicycle and pedalled away.

As the nurses and nuns prepared for the clinic day, they chattered about the Blakes. Although the sisters in particular felt a bit guilty at gossiping, the couple was so exotic and unusual, they were a form of entertainment.

Sister Mary Cynthia said, "I didn't know what to do! They were there, against your door, Trixie, kissing passionately!"

"This certainly isn't like having Reverend Applebee upstairs," said Trixie with a giggle.

Sister Evangelina piped up. "Exactly. Use care, ladies. That man has no regard for propriety. I came across him in a state of undress-"

All the women within earshot gasped but leaned forward. "Naked?" asked Barbara, her eyes round.

"Not starkers," admitted the older nun. "A towel. But it was slipping!"

As if on cue, Lucien peeked into the pass-through window where they were gathered in the kitchen. "Good morning!" he said cheerfully and they all suddenly spoke of any other topic in an overlapping babble, and scattered like flapping pigeons.

Only Sister Evangelina braved it out. "Right. Let's get to business," she announced. Lucien trailed after her, blissfully oblivious.

Jean was mixing dough for biscuits. For some reason, all the biscuits she'd made the day before were gone.

A large man came in, clanking a bucket full of plumbing tools. He greeted her warmly, despite being a stranger, and introduced himself as Fred Buckle, the Nonnatus House handyman. Last night, while searching for scouring pads, she'd noticed the P-trap leaking under the sink, mentioned it to Sister Julienne, and Fred had been summoned for the repair.

Muffled by his head stuck in the cabinet, he said, "You're Aussie?" in what had become a common question for Jean.

When she said she was, then he popped his head out and asked, "Do you know Sam Loper? He's a mate o' mine who went out there in '59."

"I'm afraid not," Jean had to admit.

"Really? I didn't there were many people in Oz," Fred said.

"I suppose there's about as many people in Australia as London, but the country is larger than Europe. We're all spread out," she explained.

He looked thoughtful. "Didn't know it was that big. Being an island and all."

Jean simply nodded and rolled out the biscuit dough.

Fred moved on. Just as he had the night before with Lucien, Fred set about questioning Jean as to the dead woman and what she knew. But he met a wilier adversary in Jean Blake.

She sidestepped and flipped the questions around like a judo master. "Mrs Smith's husband was a clerk for a shipping firm. Do you know any Mr Smith who works for one of the local firms?"

Fred stroked his moustache. "Let's see...there's a Blinky Smith who's with Collins & White, but he spent the war right here-you need a bloke who was in the East?"

"Yes," Jean said encouragingly, offering a strong cup of tea to keep the man talking.

"I know just about everyone on the docks who're local to Poplar," Fred said thoughtfully. "But if this fellow came to the district after the war, well, hundreds-thousands of folks have been flooding in."

"Could you tell me the international shipping companies where Mr Smith might be working?"

Between sips of tea, Fred named them and gave her directions. It wouldn't just be Lucien who had had a lead to follow.

With her biscuits in the oven and Fred busy with his repairs, Jean moved into the hall to sweep the rugs. Although this wasn't her house, she was happy to be back to a familiar routine. Lucien had mentioned hiring a housekeeper and receptionist after they returned, and they'd briefly squabbled about it. They'd both been surprised by the dust-up. He didn't understand why she'd want to continue these mundane tasks, and she couldn't express why it was important to her. But even if she remained his receptionist, and to clean and cook, her life was going to be changed when they returned.

She found herself outside the chapel. The faint scent of beeswax candles drew her in. It was dim in the small room, and she felt like a naughty child, until the familiar setting pulled her into its embrace. It seemed the simplest thing to settle on the kneeler, and begin to pray for Teresa Smith.

She was nearing the end of her prayer, when "Oh, I'm so sorry," in a low gentle voice came from behind her.

Jean scrambled up. "I'm sorry," she echoed, tugging down her skirt.

Sister Julienne could see Jean's discomfort. To calm her, Sister Julienne sat in a chair. Jean sank to the seat beside the nun, and clutched her hands together in her lap.

"You're welcome anytime," Sister Julienne told Jean. "Sometimes the nurses join us for prayer and singing."

Jean's gaze lifted to the stained glass window behind the altar. "I've missed all this."

"I imagine there's not much in the way of services available on an ocean liner."

"I haven't been to church for much longer than that," Jean admitted. "I am...was Catholic. All my life. But I had to leave."

Sister Julienne sensed Jean needed to talk. She was respectful of people's privacy, but would reach out if needed. She nodded encouragingly.

The setting and darkness made Jean feel as though she was in a confessional booth. She'd not been forthcoming during confession in several years, but this morning, she couldn't seem to stop talking.

"Lucien had been married before and I was a widow when we met. His wife had been lost in the war...we thought. Then his wife found her way to Australia, but they soon realised it had been too long." Jean fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. "His wife is a delightful person, truly. But the war had changed them both too much. I've only known _this_ Lucien Blake, come to love him. But it meant there had to be a divorce."

"Oh, I see," said Sister Julienne quietly.

Jean looked at her quickly. "Yes." Wiping her nose, she said, "There was no choice, truly, at what I had to do. I know God wants us together; I haven't left Him, only my religion."

Wisely, Sister Julienne murmured, "But..."

"I don't want Lucien to think that he's not enough," Jean said swiftly. She gazed around the peaceful little chapel. "But he can never take the place of this." She gave a watery chuckle. "He's big. He fills lots of corners. But not this one," she whispered.

Sister Julienne quickly lay her hand over Jean's clenched fists. "My dear-"

The flood kept coming. "I had to leave the church right before Christmas. I'd attended Christmas mass every year of my life. I'd been baptised there, confirmed, married, baptised my sons...And it was just gone. Much like when I'd been notified that my husband was killed. Who you are is suddenly gone."

There were a few remaining drooping white blooms on the Easter lilies by the altar. She nodded toward them. "Easter has always been my favourite time of the year. I set the date for our wedding the week before Easter so I would be busy, distracted, wouldn't think about what I was missing. We were on the sea for Easter Sunday." She'd finally run out of things to say.

"Easter is a time for renewal," Sister Julienne pointed out. "Rebirth. You started a new life this holy season."

Jean smiled through her tears. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

Sister Julienne wanted to know more now that Jean seemed to have calmed. "What about Dr Blake? What are his feelings about attending church?"

Jean lifted one shoulder and Sister Julienne could tell this was a topic that the couple didn't discuss. "He's baptised Catholic as well, but the war-"

"It made many people lose faith," agreed Sister Julienne.

"In some ways, I think it all put him closer to God than I'll ever be," Jean confessed, a tinge of resentment in her voice. "The things he's seen, had to do...but he certainly has no time for religion."

"But does he understand that you need it?" Sister Julienne asked carefully.

Jean didn't answer that question. "I can understand how it happens. My father was a medical orderly in the Great War. He didn't see the front lines, but he was greatly affected. I was a small child, but I remember that he could become so angry, frustrated at the smallest things. He drank-" Jean sat for a long moment and Sister Julienne thought she was finished, but then she continued, "I do feel alone at times. You can't expect your husband to give you everything."

"There's a corner that's empty for you?"

Jean could only nod.

"Perhaps this journey will be more than a visit to the sights of Europe," Sister Julienne suggested.

"Everything happens for a reason?"

"Most certainly," Sister Julienne said, her face shining with joy.

Jean smiled back. "I hear the timer for the biscuits," she said, rising. "Thank you, Sister. It was good to talk." She sounded surprised.

"Any time," Sister Julienne said.

With a basket full of warm biscuits, Jean entered the busy clinic. She approached Shelagh's reception table with a smile. "What can I do to help?" she asked.

"There's plates in the kitchen if you want to put your biscuits out," Shelagh said, purposely misunderstanding Jean's offer. Her arm protectively covered her clipboard.

Stifling a laugh, Jean headed to the kitchen. If she were honest with herself, Shelagh's reaction to her presence was much like her own visceral reaction to Lucien's suggestion that she be replaced as medical receptionist and housekeeper now that she was the lady of the house.

She was at the doorway of the kitchen when she realised that two people were already in it. It was DI Flowers and Patsy Mount. She stepped to the side so that they wouldn't see her, but that she could still eavesdrop.

Patsy was telling the investigator her movements on the night of the murder. "I had a delivery until four. I walked back to Nonnatus House. I did some window shopping along the way to wind down and arrived around five. When I got back, Mattie O'Brien invited me to a party. I changed and took the bus to the party. I returned about midnight."

"Miss O'Brien didn't mention that you were with her."

"I wasn't with her. I took a different bus to go and come back."

"Why? Shouldn't pretty young ladies go together?"

Patsy stared at him for a long moment, and her lip curled. "We're quite used to travelling the streets alone." She cooled down. "I didn't decide to go until I got back and just felt the need to be with a crowd. Free booze and all that." She attempted a smile. "As for coming back separately, it had looked like Mattie was getting along well with a particular bloke, and I didn't want to play the gooseberry by asking if she was ready to go. I just left."

Jean listened to all this with concern. Either Patsy or Mattie were lying about their movements that night, or both.

She slipped around the corner when Patsy and Flowers left the kitchen. She retrieved the plate and put out the biscuits.

When she found Lucien, he was removing his lab coat. "Duty done," he said. Then he lowered his voice to add, "Let's check my lead."

"I've got a lead of my own," Jean told him proudly. Then she spotted Flowers across the clinic, talking with Sister Winifred. "We need to stay one step ahead of the police."

~ end chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

Lucien and Jean hurried to Usher Road in search of Captain Grimes' home. She told him, "I overheard Patsy Mount giving her alibi to DI Flowers and she lied outright. She told him that she was with Mattie at a party."

"Bloody hell," Lucien growled. "That'll fall apart like wet tissue. What was she thinking?"

"He had her cornered in the kitchen," Jean said gloomily.

"We've got to get to the bottom of this, and fast," Lucien said tersely. He checked the A to Z that he'd acquired, and directed her to turn at the next street corner.

As they travelled along, Jean's attention was caught by the men passing on the pavement. She'd been making notes of the latest styles for ladies since arriving in London, but now her focus turned to the gentlemen. The silhouette was slimming and sharp. That DI Flowers wore pegged leg trousers and a narrow lapel on his suit jacket and it looked very nice. She'd have to get Lucien into some of these modern suits once this case was cleared up.

Unaware that his wardrobe was in danger of an overhaul, Lucien stopped at the gate for the last house on the row, painted grey with a bright red door and shutters. "This is the place," he said. There was no smoke from the chimney stack and the shutters were closed.

Lucien caught the eye of a middle-aged housewife taking down her washing in the front garden across the road. He called out a cheerful hello.

"You that Aussie doctor?" the woman said as a way of a greeting.

"I am an Australian doctor. Doctor Blake, and this is my wife, Jean. We were looking for Captain Grimes. Do you know if he's at home?"

"Cap'in Grimes? He's not been ashore for a week. Caugh' a ship to pick up a load fer Hull," she said.

"A week, you say?" Lucien asked, disappointed. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"It's usually nine days there 'n' back," she told them, hauling her heavy basket up to rest on her hip.

He offered to carry the basket in for her and she only laughed, her strong forearms flexing as she readjusted the basket. "Fanks all the same."

Jean quickly asked before the woman would be lost to them, "Have you ever seen a blonde woman visiting him? About my age? But shorter, slender?"

"A woman visitor? Not 'im." She gave a sniff. "I'd fink 'e does the visiting, if yer know what I mean." With that, she went inside.

"What does she mean?" Jean asked Lucien.

He cleared his throat and tugged down his waistcoat. "That he visits brothels, I'd guess."

"Dear me," Jean said.

Lucien stroked his beard. "But if Teresa was his kept woman, why would he pay at such an establishment?"

"Well, Teresa was not a young thing. Surely in these type of relationships, the men replace the older models?"

He grinned at her. "Perhaps our captain is a man of discriminating tastes." His gaze lingered on her body.

With a toss of her head, Jean turned away so he wouldn't see her smile, but then noticed an old woman peering at them over the neighbouring fence, curiosity on her wizened features.

"Hello there," Jean said, "I"m Mrs Blake." She approached the fence. "Do you know anything about a blonde woman visiting the captain?"

The woman sneered, revealing her missing top teeth. "That Hattie Phelps goes t' bed with the chickens. She wou'n't see nothing. But I got the rheumatism bad. Haven't slept thro' th' night in years."

Lucien came up behind Jean. "And you've seen something?"

"A lady comes af'er dark. Cou'n't tell you if she's blonde, but she's short."

"She wears a hat? Or perhaps a headcovering?" asked Jean.

"She's in black. Shawl over 'er head, I 'spose. There's no light out back, and she'd keep ta the shadows. But I knows it's a woman from the sound of her footsteps and tha way she moves. She's got a key. Goes in tha back door." The old woman jerked her head. "Me kitchen window looks out out on tha alley. I hear tha gate creak. There she is."

"When's the last time you saw her?" asked Jean.

"Day before he sails, like always. She comes a couple times a week, an' particular if he's caught a ship, but she ain't there to do his ironing at that late hour." The crone gave a silent cackle, her toothless mouth gaping wide.

Lucien thanked her and offered a half a crown coin over the fence for her trouble, which disappeared in a flash of a pale gnarled hand into a deep pocket.

Ready to check the shipping agents for Smith, they walked slowly together towards the docks, reviewing what they'd been told.

"She could be seeing what she wants to see," pointed out Jean. "It's much more exciting to think the captain had some naughty midnight rendezvous than if he simply has a slightly built bookie who brought by his winnings."

Lucien mused, "I don't understand why Teresa isn't living with him."

"What I've learned so far from my interactions in Poplar is that they're very provincial in their thinking, despite being a few Tube stops from the heart of London. Mrs Smith would have been roundly shunned if she were his kept woman."

"They simply could have lied," Lucien said, "claimed to be married. It's not as though people hang their marriage certificates on their walls."

"But if her husband was still alive and she couldn't marry?" suggested Jean. She looked up at the business name painted on the side of the large brick warehouse. "Ah, here's the first one. Madsen Brothers Shipping."

There was no Mr Smith there, so they strolled to the next shipping office. In that loud open workspace, a florid-faced portly Mr Dawson, who reminded Jean painfully of Patrick Tyneman, listened to their claim to be looking for the husband of Lucien's cousin. At first, they were disappointed when he shook his head and said, "No, he doesn't work here—"

But the man continued: "Dickie Smith works at Hoover Shipping, down the quay. Was in Malaya; that's right."

"Yes, that is probably him," Lucien said quickly.

"He's a mate o' mine. We started together after the war, so that's why I know he was in a camp out there." Dawson snapped his braces. "I got this promotion to manager, but ol' Dick seems to be satisfied with where he's at."

"And Mrs Smith?" Lucien asked leadingly. "You know her as well?"

"Nancy? Certainly." His friendly expression became a bit more guarded. "She and my Maggie go to the market together, do WI fetes and the like."

Lucien asked cheekily, "Is she still a redhead? Or has she gone blonde?"

"No, black hair. At least since I've known 'er," Dawson said with a chuckle.

Jean and Lucien exchanged interested looks. Jean smiled at Dawson. "Could we have the Smiths' address please? We're not in London for long, but wanted so much to catch up with them."

"Of course." Unsuspicious, Dawson wrote the address for them on a slip of paper.

Thanking him, the Blakes took to the streets again, excited to be this close to a breakthrough in the case. Only to come around the street corner for the address...and there was Noakes and Flowers approaching from the other direction.

"Bloody hell," growled Lucien, but they were spotted.

Flowers strode up, cigarette hanging from his lower lip. "Funny meeting you here," he said.

Lucien tried one of his bright smiles, but the police were having none of it. Flowers checked his watch. "Let's give Smith time to have his tea. Come to the pub with me," he ordered the Blakes, "and let's compare notes."

Lucien got himself a pint and Jean a sherry, and Flowers and Noakes just asked for coffee. Lucien took a deep drink of his ale, but there was no more delay.

"So what have you found out today?" Flowers demanded to know.

Lucien tried his clueless tourist routine again. "Detective Inspector, we were just out for a stroll. Such an interesting part of London—" Jean dipped her head to take a sip of her sherry.

Rory would have none of it. He told Peter, "See, Noakes, this here Aussie is one of us. A copper."

Noakes looked astonished.

"Not a policeman," Lucien protested. "A police surgeon. And that has nothing to do with my interest in Teresa Smith."

"Yeah, what is behind that interest?" Flowers ground out his cigarette in the table ashtray and leaned forward. Jean shifted back, pulling her sherry glass closer.

"I told you. The Smiths were in a prisoner of war camp. So was I. With Teresa dead, I want to be sure that Dick Smith is alright."

"So you've got his name now. You work fast. Or did you have some help?"

Sipping his ale, Lucien cast an innocent gaze over the pint glass rim.

Rory was tiring of his act. "Let's work together, alright? We've got a killer to catch."

Jean relaxed and gave him a tentative smile. Rory wondered what role she played in this guy's sniffing around.

"Of course," Lucien said heartily.

"The Home Office provided me the name of Richard Smith and his address. That took all day. And yet here you are."

Jean shot a quick glance at Lucien. "Dr Blake had been told that Dick Smith worked at an international shipping office. We thought he may work there in London as well, and that's what we found."

Rory shook his head. "You're good. Damn good."

"Thank you," Jean said primly, and sipped her sherry again. Lucien draped his arm across the back of her chair and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

"Okay, this is what we're going to do," said Rory. "You'll come in and talk to this bloke with us. Give him your line about meeting Teresa after the war. Let's see what he has to say about his missing wife."

Jean interrupted. "That's the thing, Detective Inspector. We've been told Dick Smith has a wife, but her name is Nancy, and she's a brunette."

"Does he now." Rory lit another cigarette. "A man with two wives. That's a problem." He was curious to see Lucien looked uncomfortable and his wife was giving him an arched eyebrow. "But now he's only got one." Rory squinted through the smoke at Noakes. "Pretty convenient."

Peter cleared his throat. "Sir, even though Teresa Smith wasn't a known prostitute, I've gone through reports of crimes against such women in the East End." He took out his notebook and flipped it open. "Unfortunately, I don't think all are reported, but we do know there's been five murders in the past year. Two victims fit the general description of Teresa Smith—older blonde women, but they were stabbed to death. I also have six assaults which weren't sexual—" He glanced at Jean. "All were stabbings as well—"

"But Teresa wasn't stabbed," Lucien pointed out.

Deflated, Noakes closed his notebook. "No, she wasn't."

Surprising him, Flowers extended praise. "That's good, Noakes. We need to explore all avenues. More than likely it's this husband, but if not, I want to talk to some of these girls and see what they have to say."

"Yes, sir."

Lucien asked, "Speaking of her manner of death, could I please see the notes from the autopsy?"

"You didn't get enough from your impromptu slice and dice?" asked Rory.

For the first time, Lucien Blake gave him a sincere wide grin. Rory decided that earned a peek. He flipped through his notebook, found his notations from the autopsy, and carefully put a rubberband around the pages so Lucien couldn't steal a look at anything else.

Making no comment, Lucien quickly looked at the notes. Rory drained his coffee cup. Peter made small talk with Jean about his friends at Nonnatus House. Behind his back, Rory rolled his eyes. Grown man, happy to play in the skirts of old nuns—

"Shall we go?" Lucien said, handing the notebook back to Rory.

They rose from the table. At the doorway, as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the brightness, Rory put his hand on Lucien's arm. "This is my investigation," he warned Lucien. "I'm the lead." As they walked out, he didn't see Noakes exchange smiles with Jean Blake.

Opening the front door of his house, a weedy little fair man with thick spectacles blinked in confusion at the group clustered on his doorstep.

"Dick Smith?" asked Rory

"Yes, it's Mr Richard Smith," the man said fussily.

Rory held up his warrant card. "DI Flowers, Metropolitan Police. Can we have a word, Dick." It wasn't a question and he didn't bother to introduce the rest of the party.

Smith was obviously the sort who didn't question authority. Shrinking back into the hall, he allowed everyone to enter, then led them into the front room. He made sure Jean took pride of place in a delicate Queen Anne chair. "I'll get you some tea," he said, suggesting he felt that he must play the host or suffer the repercussions.

"No need," Rory said, side-stepping to block the doorway. "We're here about your wife."

Dick blinked and checked the little porcelain clock on the mantle. "Nancy's at work. She won't be back until ten."

Without asking, Rory lit a cigarette. Jean pursed her lips at him. He turned away from her. Lucien frowned.

"Not that wife, Mr Smith. Your other one."

Smith's attempt at a middle-class veneer slipped: "Wot?"

"Teresa. Remember that one?"

Lucien stepped between the two men and addressed Dick. "Mr Smith, I'm Doctor Lucien Blake. I was in Singapore when it fell, like you and Teresa. You were in separate camps? After the war, perhaps you thought she was dead? You couldn't find her? So you returned to England and married again..."

Dick sank onto the settee and clenched his hands together. "I was told she was dead. Truly."

"I understand," Lucien murmured, easing down beside Dick. He clapped his hand on Dick's shoulder.

"Then she was here," said Jean. "What could you do?"

Her sympathetic expression untied Dick's tongue. "Nothing. I could do nothing. I love Teresa, but I love Nancy too." He tossed up his hands. "I just try my best. Juggling."

"Quite the balancing act," Rory murmured.

Dick continued his owl-like blinking.

"When's the last time that you saw her?" Jean asked gently, dreading the moment this man found out the truth. "How did she seem?"

"Day before yesterday." Dick focused on his white fists in his lap. "We'd meet off in one of the abandoned buildings...you know."

"To shag?" Rory asked.

Jean shot him another disapproving look but Lucien leaned forward to catch Dick's downcast gaze. "But it wasn't like that, was it, Dick?"

"She's my wife," Dick offered as a weak defence. "I tried to help out. Give her some money, but Nancy watches the household budget pretty closely. It was my beer and fags money. Haven't touched a drop or a smoke in years."

"You were supporting her?" Lucien asked.

"No, there wasn't enough for that. She had lodgings in a boarding house, but wouldn't tell me which one. Afraid I'd come around, make a nuisance of myself," he said, giving a rueful little smile. "Her landlady is a Tartar apparently."

"So how did she pay the rent, do you suppose?" Rory asked casually.

"I don't know."

"Don't know where she lives," Rory said with a sneer, "don't know how she supported herself, but up for a shag."

Dick jumped up, his face flushed. "What's this all about? Is Teresa in some sort of trouble?"

Rory loomed over the shorter man. "Teresa Smith was killed day before yesterday. Her body was found a few blocks from here, in Cotton Lane."

Dick fell back into his seat with a painful gasp. Jean immediately went to him, and Lucien glared at Rory. He spotted a drinks cabinet on the wall and fetched a glass of Scotch for Dick.

"Drink this," he commanded. Dick eagerly took it and drained it, his hands shaking.

Jean rubbed his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

Noakes had been standing by the lounge door, taking notes. "May we search the house?" he now asked, his tone mild but his gaze watchful.

Jean took the empty glass from Dick and he looked up at the police with confusion. "Search? For what?"

"It's murder, Mr Smith," Noakes explained patiently.

"And you're the husband," pointed out Flowers.

"She didn't live here, or ever visit."

"But someone killed her," said Flowers, "and that someone could be you."

That gobsmacked Dick and he shrank back in the cushions Taking some sympathy for him, Rory promised, "We'll be quick. Done before the wife...Nancy Smith gets home."

Jean and Lucien stayed with Dick as Noakes and Flowers began their swift but efficient search.

Lucien filled the glass for Dick again, and one for himself. Jean shook her head when he held up the glass to her as a silent question. She looked around the room. You could tell a great deal about a woman, and her husband, by decor and cleanliness. On the latter, the room was spotless to the point of being antiseptic. Jean had let go of some of her own high standards with Lucien's tendency for sudden explosive untidiness, and young people coming and going, leaving a trail of debris. Only Matthew was tidy to a military precision.

This was very much a lady's front parlour, which wasn't necessarily uncommon, but it made Dick Smith seem even more invisible than the bland little man was. Then he spoke, and his voice was shockingly ragged, shattering the oppressive femininity of the room. "How did she die?" Dick asked, tears streaming down his face.

"She was struck on the head. Death appears to have been near instant. There would have been little pain."

"That's something at least. With all the pain she'd been through."

"Yes," said Lucien, draining his glass.

Jean perched on the arm of sofa. "How did she seem the last time that you saw her?" she asked again gently.

Trusting, Dick turned to her, eager to share. "As ever. Happy to see me, to be with me. I gave her some money, we...we made love." He stared at his untouched drink.

After exchanging a look with Lucien, Jean delicately asked, "Was she dressed as a nun then?"

Dick's face flamed. "Yes," he replied, low. "It's...unseemly, I know."

"Why did she do that?" Lucien said, "I mean, dress in a nun's habit."

"It was easier to travel after dark without being bothered. Women alone on the streets...blokes figure they're prossies."

"What time was this?" said Jean, having retrieved her notebook.

"Around ten. Nancy is at the Lyons Corner House until eleven, three days a week. That's when we'd usually meet."

Jean carefully noted this down. They must get truthful answers from Patsy now that she'd dug herself such a deep hole. Lucien appeared to be thinking the same thing.

"Did she ever talk about the camp? What happened to her there."

"We didn't talk about those places much. Kept it in the past."

Lucien nodded, but his face was conflicted.

"Did she mention meeting anyone from the camp recently?" Jean dared to ask.

"No."

Lucien tried again. "Not upset about anything?"

"No, if anything, she seemed upbeat." Dick remembered something. "She even said that last time that she'd be coming into some money soon, and we'd be able to leave all this behind."

Lucien and Jean exchanged worried looks over his head as he finally drank his Scotch. They were both thinking about Patsy.

"Of course, I'd never have left Nancy," David mused. "I had obligations to both of them."

Before Lucien could share his advice on the topic, they heard a back door slam and Dick's head shot up. "Roger," he breathed, "Damn it to hell."

Footsteps thumped up the stairs, and suddenly there was shouting heard above stairs. All three rushed to the foyer.

Peter and Rory were wrestling with another man, pulling him to the stairs. "What's this about?" Noakes asked in his best constable voice.

"Wot are you plods doin' 'ere?" gasped the young man.

"Roger!" Dick called. "Come away from there!"

Accustomed to dealing with drunken louts in the pubs, Peter got the situation in hand. Gripping the lad by the scruff of his jacket, he frog-marched Roger down the steps to stand in front of his father. Rory clattered after them, closing off that route of escape.

"What is this?" Dick asked his son.

"Dunno!" Roger grumbled, yanking loose from Noakes. "I go up to me room, an' them coppers are in there."

Rory lit a cigarette and looked the young man over. With a closer examination, what he'd taken to be a teen with his grease-splattered dungarees, dusty boots, and canvas jacket with the name of a garage on the back, was actually a man of around thirty. Long dark hair flopped over his brow, and petulant, too-close together grey eyes peered around the knot of strangers. "Who're you lot?" Roger asked.

"Show some respect, son," Dick chided.

"No need to get worked up," Rory said, taking charge. "We've just come by to make inquiries about an acquaintance of your father's."

Dick's face read all his relief.

"Are we done with the search, Noakes?" Rory asked Peter.

"Yes, sir."

Rory checked with the Blakes next. "Did you have any more questions?"

Jean had slipped her notebook in her purse and was tugging on her gloves. Lucien fastened up his overcoat. "Yes, we're finished here, I'd say," he agreed. They left father and son to sort themselves out.

On the pavement, Rory suggested they go to the pub again. He was interested in hearing what the Blakes had got out of Dick Smith while he and Noakes were searching.

But Lucien only gave him one of those bright smiles, his facade back in place. "We'd best get back to Nonnatus House. Jean must get dinner started."

"We'll talk tomorrow then," Rory said with a warning tone.

Once out of earshot of the two policemen, Lucien asked Jean, "How old do you think Roger Smith is?"

"About thirty, I'd say."

"Yes..." Lucien said slowly. "Teresa was born in 1922 according to Flowers' notes. Younger than she looked; the camp aged her. Unlikely she's that young man's mother."

"He could be Nancy's son? And adopted Dick's name?" suggested Jean.

"I suppose," Lucien said slowly. "But the young man does not seem the sort for filial affection."

"No." Jean's heels clacked busily on the cobblestones, matching her rapid thoughts. "We seem to be finding only more questions."

"Perhaps. But tonight we'll get some answers from those young women, Mattie and Patsy," Lucien said with grim determination.

~ end Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

Mattie had had another long day with her clients, and wanted to take off her shoes and get into her dressing gown with a cigarette and a glass of Scotch before seeking out Lucien and Jean. She had news for them. But when she entered her room, Lucien and Jean were already waiting. Lucien stood, arms folded, while Jean sat at the desk, her notebook ready.

"What's with the welcoming committee?" she said laughing, but Lucien and Jean remained sober.

Tense, Lucien asked, "When you do expect Patsy back?"

Her smile faded. "She was downstairs cleaning her equipment when I came in. Do you have some news?"

"Yes. Fetch her, please."

When both girls stood before Lucien, feeling ridiculously as though they were in front of the headmaster, he concisely explained that they'd tracked down both Captain Grimes and Dick Smith.

"Surely the murderer is one of these men," said Mattie, relieved.

Lucien fixed his gaze on Patsy. "Jean heard you tell DI Flowers that you were with Mattie the night of the murder."

Mattie looked quickly at Patsy, but backed up her friend. "Of course—"

Lucien held up his hands. "The police will bring in the Smiths for statements, then Flowers will start checking alibis. Jean and I found the sea captain was gone from Poplar on the night of the murder, and although Smith was with Teresa in the evening, his current wife will likely alibi him for the time of the murder. So the police will go down the list."

Patsy and Mattie kept their gazes on their feet.

Lucien's mouth became a hard line with frustration but Jean was having none of it. She spoke sharply to Patsy, "We don't have time for this. We need the truth. We won't have you bring Mattie down with you."

Patsy just stared back at them, mute. Mattie was furious. In Ballarat, it had been wonderful to know that no matter what risks she took, Lucien and Jean would protect and support her. Now, she strained against the reins they were holding too tightly. Temper flaring, she began to protest, but Lucien stepped forward, his large hands a shield against anything she had to say. He seemed big and powerful, and both girls found themselves leaning back.

Then he was suddenly gentle, and when his fingers snared Patsy's hand, they were soft and yielding. His low words wound into her head. "I understand, Patsy. There's no greater helplessness than having been through war. No matter how hard you fight, it's not enough. The ones you love, who you battled to save, are lost to you." He looked over his shoulder at Jean. "It's so frightening to risk losing anyone again, and it can feel best to just pull your head in. Everyone else is holding a victory parade but you feel no triumph. You've won nothing."

His gaze returned to Patsy. "But the war is over. You'll lose what you do have—"

She shook her head and tried to pull away.

"I've met Delia," he said quietly.

The room was deadly silent, filled with unspoken questions drowned out by the hysterical scream reverberating in her skull.

"You were with Delia Busby at her lodgings. You two are lovers, and you fear the repercussions of that relationship being discovered. You'll do anything to keep that from happening."

Jean's soft gasp didn't divert Lucien. He remained focused on Patsy.

Oddly, now that the words were said, those which she'd spent much of her life in fear of hearing aloud, she felt free. And fearless. The young woman raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. "Yes."

Lucien didn't reward her for this painful truth; he kept questioning her. "Was Teresa blackmailing you?"

"Yes."

Mattie took Patsy's hand and hung on tight.

"Somehow she saw Delia and me together. We don't usually...not on the street, but I thought it was safe. Just a goodnight kiss down an alley, after dinner at Nonnatus House before she caught the bus.

"Just a kiss," she repeated.

Lucien took a shot in the dark: "She asked for money."

Patsy tossed her head. "Because my father was the director at the firm where her husband had worked, she assumed I can get my hands on a fortune at the drop of a hat. I gave her a hundred pounds the first time, but she told me that I'd need to give her a thousand, or she'd go to Sister Julienne."

"This was the night she died?" Lucien guessed.

Patsy nodded miserably.

Moving to lean against the desk beside Jean, Lucien folded his arms again and fell deep in thought.

"Do you believe that I killed her?" Patsy asked.

"No." Lucien shook his head but didn't look at her. "Or perhaps I don't want you to be the killer," he admitted ruefully.

She went limp with relief. That was enough for now.

Jean, her pencil posed over the page of her notebook, asked, "What time did you see Teresa?"

"About 10:30. She'd sent me a note, asking me to meet her at the end of Cotton Lane. People know it's a place that prostitutes take their customers. No one's going to go down there if there's a red scarf hanging off the lamp post. That means a girl is entertaining."

"After she made her threat, you told her no?"

Patsy could barely nod. The weight of this situation settled on her, heavy and blinding.

"You left her there?"

"Yes." Even Patsy could see how weak this would sound to the police. "I took the bus to Delia's lodgings."

"Did anyone see you there?" Jean asked.

"No. It was after lockup for the evening. I still have a key."

Lucien shook his head, and she knew how bad it all sounded. He said, "Do you think she had anything written down? Did she say anything like that?"

"I don't know. She didn't claim so."

"Her lodgings haven't been found yet," explained Jean, "even her husband didn't know where she lived."

To everyone's surprise, Mattie piped up. "I know where she lived."

Lucien rewarded her with one of his eager grins, and all her anger was forgotten. Knowing she had their attention, she decided to get comfortable. She plopped down on the bed, and crossed her legs.

"A few months ago, I had a client at a boarding house, Birdsong Lodgings for Ladies. I was walking by it today and looked in the window to see if she was in the front room. That's when I noticed a card advertising a room for rent. When Brenda stuck her head out to say hello, I asked her who'd left. At first, when she said Susan Terrence, I was disappointed, but I remembered that you'd said Teresa's daughter's name was named Susan," she said to Patsy. "I asked her age, if she was blonde—it all fitted; I think it's Teresa."

Lucien mused, "The police will eventually find that boarding house—"

"What if we get there first?" asked Jean.

"I've met Mrs Birdsong," said Mattie, "she wouldn't appreciate questions. I got the impression that many of the women there are like Teresa, with pasts and presents they don't want to share."

"Perfect," Jean said, closing her notebook and rising. "That will make my cover easier to create. A woman of mystery."

"Cover? What have you got in mind?" Lucien asked cautiously.

"I'll take that room," she explained patiently. "Find Teresa's things and search for any notes she may have been keeping."

"Now hold it right there—" Lucien puffed up.

Patsy rolled her eyes while Mattie stifled a grin.

"Haven't you said that blackmailers rarely have just one victim?" pointed out Jean. "It could be another victim wasn't going to pay her either."

"I don't know, Jean—"

Mattie could see him weakening and nodded knowingly at Patsy.

He thought of something else. "Patsy, did Teresa have a son?"

"No, at least not alive when she came into the camp." Patsy explained to Jean, "The men's and women's camps were within sight of each other. All boys puberty age and older were housed with the men. We'd steal moments when the guards weren't watching, and wave at each other. Mothers would wait days for a glimpse of their sons. I never saw Teresa watching for a boy. She stopped watching for her husband after Susan died."

Jean felt rather than saw the ripple of pain pass through Lucien. She reached out for his hand but only caught two fingers to hold. He didn't notice.

"We would go to the fence and wave at my father. My mum, little sister, me. Then my sister died, but we still went, even though we knew it would upset him. We were still alive. My mum died, but I had to go so Dad knew at least one of us lived. When he saw it was just me, he never came back. I assumed he died. At the end of the war, and I found he'd lived, I realized he couldn't come to the fence because I wasn't enough. I would just never be enough for him."

Mattie leapt up from the bed. "No, Patsy, no."

Lucien turned to Jean now, slipping his hand into hers, and squeezing it tightly until she closed her eyes with the pain. But she didn't let go.

* * *

Back in their room, freshly bathed and in their nightclothes, both had something on their minds.

Lucien spoke first. He'd had time to think. "Jean, I don't think this is a good idea—"

"We'll discuss it tomorrow," she said dismissively. Crawling onto the bed, she propped herself against the headboard and wiggled her bare feet to warm them.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Lucien wrapped her feet with his large hands, instantly heating them. He noted her furrowed brow; she was deep in thought. "Something else on your mind?"

"Lucien..." She picked at the hem of her pyjama top. "Did I understand...what you were saying about Patsy and her friend?"

"That they're lesbians?"

She flinched a bit at the word, although she'd never heard anyone say it aloud, and certainly had never said it herself.

Leaning close so he could hear her whisper, she asked, "Do you think...Mattie?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"She doesn't seem interested in settling down," fretted Jean.

"A lot of young ladies these days are in no hurry to marry. Look at Rose."

"That's true," Jean said with relief. "I just want to see her married—eventually that is—have children, and that couldn't happen if she were...like that."

"Married doesn't necessarily mean happy. I want Mattie to be happy," Lucien said gently. He dropped his head to focus on her wiggling toes. "Not all men are kind."

Jean hummed worriedly. "I don't understand," she murmured, "Patsy is a beautiful girl. She could have any man—"

"She doesn't want one, I suppose," Lucien said. He felt a bit out of his depth, but could see that Jean was counting on him to explain. Her curious mind had always attracted him, but at times he worried about keeping up with it.

Sure enough, she cocked her head and looked at him quizzically. "I can see wishing to spend your life with a woman. There would be comfort in understanding each other easily. A type of companionship you couldn't have with a man." She lay back against the headboard again and her cheeks went pink.

He chuckled and rubbed the balls of her feet slowly. "I'd be the first to admit that men can be a lot of work."

If he was looking for reassurance, he didn't get it. She nodded definitely, but then her foot slid over his thigh, the heel pressing down on the hard muscle, before coming to rest between his legs.

"But...something would be missing," she said wickedly.

He wasn't going to let her get to him. "They don't need it to enjoy themselves," he gasped out as she flexed her toes against his twitching erection.

"Really?" she said, doubtful.

He took that as a challenge. "I haven't given you my best work," he explained, "I keep getting carried away and just going..." He brushed the top of her foot, pressing it gently into his groin. "Straight to the finale."

She grinned and lolled back against the pillows. Her breasts rose and fell under the satin of her pyjama top and a strip of bare skin peeked from between the hem and the waist of the pants. His fingertip traced the pale skin and she arched to meet his touch, paper twisting in a flame.

From under her eyelashes, she gazed at him in that way that thudded the pulse in his cock. Although it was true that he had been overwhelmed by his pent-up need since their wedding night, his attempts to give her pleasure outside her apparent realm of experience had been met with uncharacteristic shyness. More than once, he'd given a figurative kick in the pants to Christopher and felt immediately guilty for this uncharitable thought. But now there was a flicker of interest in Jean's grey eyes.

"I can show you what they do," he offered.

"Mmmm?" Uncertainty and curiosity wound together in one note.

He flipped the pearl buttons loose on her top and kept his touch feather-light as he swept it open. But when he leaned over to lightly kiss her neck, she giggled.

"I don't know how many ladies have a beard."

Rising from the bed, he left her in a devastating wave of cold, the door blown open by a strong breeze. "I'll shave," he said so definitely that she actually believed he would do it. In a flash, she was up and grabbing him around the neck.

"Don't you dare," she panted, half fright, half excitement. Burying her nose in his neck, she breathed in his deep-forest scent. No, this was not a woman...the skin of his neck was sun-burnished and tough as calfskin, with stripes of gold and bronze left by strong rays. Her upper lip traced his hairline, finding that one erratic whorl which had called to her from the very first day that she'd seen it.

"You'll have to use your imagination," he rumbled, his voice reverberating under her palm pressed against his sternum.

She cupped and hefted his pectoral muscles in the way he lifted her breasts.

They both burst out laughing, nervous and excited, and fell together across the two beds, then shushed each other, remembering that outside the door there were nuns and hard-working nurses.

He shimmied her bottoms off. He told her with mock seriousness, "I must focus on the myriad of ways to give you pleasure, or you may trade me in for a better model."

She tried to protest, but he was kissing her, slow and lazy. Like travelling down the piano keys, his fingers bounced along her ribs, across her hips, behind her knees. It was not his usual strength-filled touch, contained but able to overpower.

When a single finger slid inside her, it wasn't as penetration. His touch circled, brushed with such light tenderness that she was instantly writhing breathlessly. Pressing, caressing, seeking something she was desperate for him to find. When his hand withdrew, she cried out.

"Shhh," he murmured against her throat where the pulse leapt, frantic as she felt.

Wet fingers circled her nipple, soothing the painful flesh. His mouth covered the nub, lapping it clean. His hand returned between her legs and her hips rose to meet it. She gripped his short hair, turning her nails into his skull. Inside, she held his stroking fingers just as tightly. On her nipple, his tongue's movement replicated his thumb's strokes across her clit. When he left her breast and began the slow journey down her body, she watched him through half-closed eyes. He slid off the bed to kneel on the floor. Just his lips nipped at her flushed skin and he hovered above her to keep his beard from stroking along the way. But this was no woman. His broad back flexed under the satin pyjama top, his wide shoulders bunched, his thick arm lifted her leg and draped it over his shoulder, the contained power of a wild cat coming out of the jungle.

His wide palm swept back the hair at the junction of her thighs, and he shifted her leg higher. Through the ecstatic fog, she remembered her fear at allowing him to do this when he'd tried before. The sense of exposure, the dark weight of shame, had kept her from giving in. Now she could see that he was no invader; he was a man bowed in prayer.

His thumb stroked her clit, and she could feel his breath following its path...He had her so close to release...panting with agony and pleasure, she moaned his name—

A firm rapping on the door made them both freeze.

"Doctor Blake, Phyllis Crane here!"

He stared at Jean, his mouth gaping with shock. Her hand shaking, she pushed her hair off her flushed face. "You better get that," she whispered hoarsely. She began to button up her top.

Heartbroken, he rose with a groan. Before he could go to the door though, she hissed, "Lucien!" while nodding at the tenting in his pyjama bottoms.

Squaring his shoulders, he took several deep breaths. Frantically searching, she found her bottoms on the floor and pulled them on. By then, his problem had diminished greatly.

"How do you do that?" she asked peevishly. Having two sons and a husband, she wasn't missish about such matters but was a bit put out that he could turn off his desire so easily. Her own body still thrummed hotly.

He grinned. "Three years of practice," he told her with a dignified leer and went to the door before she could find a proper retort.

Phyllis immediately looked contrite when she saw Lucien's mussed hair and rumpled pyjamas. "I'm so sorry, Dr Blake, but we have a mother with high blood pressure in labour at the maternity home. Normally I'd call Dr Turner, but you're right here—"

"Of course, Nurse Crane," Lucien said, accepting his fate. "I'll slip on my clothes and be right with you."

As he quickly dressed, he chose to ignore Jean, rolling on the bed, giggling in frustration.

"You, I'll deal with later," he said before kissing her breathless. Knotting his tie, he hurried out of the room.

But when he returned nearly at dawn, he found Jean fast asleep. A sliver of light came through the curtain, touching her face, her features light with slumber. He quickly changed into his pyjamas, stifling his winces of pain. Delivery was backbreaking work. Slipping under the covers, he discovered that Jean had untucked them so he could at least touch her now. He reached for her—and then felt eyes on them. Glancing up, he saw the crucifix gazing down, glowing in the shaft of pale blue light.

"Yes, yes," he grumbled, moving back on his narrow mattress. He had to have the last word though. "You're coming down tomorrow," he promised.

~ end chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

Bright morning light finally woke Lucien. He cracked his swollen lids open. He felt as though he'd been on an all night bender and had been left with a fuzz-covered tongue, sore back, and pounding head. Having a general practice had made him soft, he realised. He'd only delivered a few babies before this, and was enjoying these moments of holding a brand new life in his hands, even when it meant late nights and a physical toll.

Too bad this latest delivery had interrupted the delightful encounter with his bride. Perhaps Jean was having a lie-in with him...He patted behind him, only to find her side of the bed empty. He sighed.

The door opened and the clatter of her heels signalled Jean's entry. "Good morning, my love," he murmured, rolling over to greet her. His mouth fell open in shock.

Jean was dressed as he'd never seen her before. Her curls were teased into a bouffant and wrapped in a periwinkle chiffon scarf that turned her eyes blue. Her makeup was bright on her lips and cheekbones. Another scarf was tied around her neck, this one red. He liked her in red. But most startling of all was her blouse, a flouncy sort of garment, with flowing sleeves and a low neckline edged with ruffles, printed all over with bright red flowers on white satin. Her black skirt was snug, hugging all her curves, and shorter than she normally wore. She minced towards the bed on a flashy pair of red heels that she'd worn on the ship with her evening gowns. One night, when they'd made love, he'd asked her to keep those shoes on...that high heel sliding up the back of his thigh...His cock twitched at the memory.

"What's this?" he managed to gasp.

"Meet Sally Hopkins," she said cheekily.

"Come over here then," he demanded, holding his arms out.

Even as she perched on the edge of the mattress, she warned him, "Mustn't mess me up. I'm going on soon."

His brow furrowed. She spoke as though she was about to start a performance— "You can't go alone—"

"You can hardly move into a ladies' boarding house with me," she pointed out.

"Jean—"

"Lucien." She laid her fingertips on his lips. "It will be fine." She'd not tell him this, but she was actually feeling a deep satisfaction to be going off on an investigation and leaving him to fret alone for once. Even just the costume was giving her a thrill. This would be the lead role, and a woman quite different from her own appearance.

Lucien looked frustrated, but didn't argue any more. He flicked the flouncy ruffle of her blouse. "You're sure this is really just a ladies boarding house?"

"Oh you!" She pinched him right below his stabbing scar.

Ignoring the pain, he murmured, "I shan't spoil your pretty makeup," and carefully kissed her neck.

Cradling his jaw, rubbing her thumb along his beard in that familiar stroke, she smiled happily. Then forced herself to stand, slipping free from his grasp. "I'd better go. I just wanted to check on you. Mattie will show me the way, and then I'll see if I can get that room."

He flopped back against the pillows. "This is some honeymoon. Now we're to even sleep apart, not just the covers tucked in between us?" He sounded petulant, but he couldn't help himself.

It was her turn to carefully brush her bright red lips on his neck. "Absence will make the heart grow fonder."

Catching a whiff of her perfume, he shifted uncomfortably. "My heart isn't the only organ which will miss you." He was definitely whining now.

She gave his chest a gentle slap. "It'll just be a day or so! Remember how long we waited." She slipped off her wedding ring. "Keep this safe for me."

"What?"

He looked like a kicked puppy and she nearly wavered. Curling his fingers around the ring, she kissed the back of his hand. "Don't get in too much trouble while I'm gone."

"Me?" he said, all innocence.

With a knowing laugh, she sashayed out of the room.

After enjoying that final view, he carefully put the gold band in the bedside table drawer. He threw the covers back and found his balance on sore legs. He had his own threads of the investigation to follow.

Mattie was waiting for Jean at the bottom of the stairs. She whistled in appreciation, and Jean rolled her eyes. "Oh, you!" she scolded. After putting on a worn dull brown overcoat, she picked up the battered suitcase that they'd found in the storeroom. Her costume was complete.

She'd risen early, regretfully leaving Lucien asleep with just a peck to his slack cheek. Desire still washed through her body though, and she felt that familiar, automatic stab of guilt. She had to keep reminding herself that it was acceptable now—she was married, after all. And there was no priest to whom to confess.

As she'd come down the stairs, she'd seen the line of nuns entering their chapel. Pausing, she remembered Sister Julienne's invitation, and after a moment of hesitation, where she glanced back up at the room where Lucien slept, she followed them into the welcoming dim room.

Sister Julienne smiled warmly and nodded a greeting. Jean listened to the prayers, hearing the familiar and noting that which was different. In the end, her voice had easily joined in song.

Still buoyant at the sensation, she told Mattie, "We're off then." When they got to the door, Sister Winifred popped out of a storeroom and did a double-take at Jean's appearance.

"Oh my," she said rather breathlessly. The Blakes were distracting her with their fascinating ways and she felt instant shame. But she had to add, "You look marvellous."

"Thank you," Jean said with a laugh. "You were such a help preparing my disguise. You have a great eye for costuming."

Sister Winifred stuttered her own thanks as the women left Nonnatus House, feeling another wave of guilt.

Jean had asked for her assistance to find clothing appropriate for a cheap sort of woman that she was to play, but had asked that the nun keep this little adventure quiet. "Not a secret, per se," Jean had explained. "But when investigating a crime, you don't want to contaminate the evidence with gossip and hearsay."

And yes, her heart had leapt at the word 'investigate.' As though God was holding Sister Winifred accountable for her frivolous, vain thoughts, Sister Julienne stepped from the shadows of her office doorway where she'd been observing.

"Sister, may I see you for a moment?" Sister Julienne said soberly.

Overcome with dread, her feet dragging, Sister Winifred did as she was told.

Mattie led the way through the busy streets and Jean began to practise her English accent as they chatted, feeling a bit like Eliza Doolittle as she stumbled over clipped vowels.

Having observed how everyone in Poplar seemed to know about the Australian visitors to the district, she'd decided it wasn't safe to use her own accent. But being in London just a few days had quickly shown her that what she'd seen at the pictures and on the wireless wasn't a true representation of the different dialects of Great Britain. Barely able to comprehend the local one, she definitely wasn't going to attempt that. Instead, she'd try for DI Flowers' mangled accent. Her ear was tuned enough to realise he was covering a humble past with a put-on accent, not always successfully. Sally Hopkins would doing that as well.

"I hope you and Lucien aren't too angry with me," Mattie said, interrupting Jean's thoughts.

"Dear, we're never angry with you," Jean reassured her, squeezing the young woman's arm. "We're just worried, that's all."

Mattie bristled. "I can look after myself. I've been doing just fine here in London—"

Jean adjusted her handbag strap on her arm and spoke with a forced nonchalant manner. "I can understand, that is, if Patsy's a...particular friend of yours—"

Mattie furrowed her brow, wondering what Jean meant... "Oh! Oh, Jean." She giggled and nudged her. "Haven't you become a woman of the world. Lucien's rubbing off on you."

Tossing her head, Jean fought a smile.

"Patsy's a good friend, that's all. I'm afraid I've acquired Lucien's need to take the misunderstood and fringes of society under my wing. It's not right what she and Delia have to go through, and if I can help—"

"That's our girl," Jean praised her warmly, and Mattie found herself fighting tears. It felt wonderful to be back on the best of terms with her friends.

At the end of the lane, Mattie halted. "There's the lodging house, up ahead on the corner," she said.

Jean shifted her suitcase to the other hand. "Right then," she said, summoning her courage and trying to sound as English as possible.

Mattie gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You'll be brilliant. Chin up."

But as she watched Jean stride purposefully away, she frowned with concern.

* * *

Mrs Lydia Birdsong looked Jean over. "Wanting a room, are you?"

"Yes, please," Jean said, biting back a retort. The card was still in the window, offering the available room. She decided to jump right in. "As it happens, a friend of mine is staying here. I'm hoping to have a nice catch up. Susan Terrence?"

Mrs Birdsong frowned. "She's left," she said shortly.

"Oh, that's a shame," Jean said. "We knew each other out in the Orient, and she mentioned specially in her last letter how much she liked these lodgings."

"Wouldn't know it from the way she went on. Too good for this place. Too good for Poplar."

"She did have a way about her," Jean agreed, crossing her legs. Her skirt rode up and she fought the impulse to yank it back down.

Mrs Birdsong sneered at the sight of Jean's exposed knees. She was a tall, big-boned woman whose figure was rigidly contained by an old-fashioned corset. The shelf of her breasts would keep anyone at arm's length. Her hair, dyed an unnatural shade of red, was scraped up in a tight bun. The overall effect was of a school mistress who'd rap Jean's knuckles for flashing her knees.

Mindful that she had to get that room, Jean did in fact, pull her skirt back in place. "Did Susie leave a forwarding address?"

"No," was all the landlady said, but she didn't meet Jean's eye. Instead, her gaze roamed the parlour, one of those rooms which had frozen in time twenty years ago, just as stiff, formal and faded as the line of silver framed photographs on the mantlepiece.

Then her eyes snapped into focus on Jean's inquisitive face. "What brings you to Poplar," asked Mrs Birdsong, "apart from renewing old acquaintances?"

Jean neatly sidestepped. "London's become so expensive while I've been away. This seemed like a respectable but affordable spot to stop awhile."

"Cash up front for the first week, and due every Monday morning, spot on nine o'clock sharp."

Jean took that as a hint and opened her handbag to dig out her purse. She extracted the three pounds rent listed on the card, then pulled out another three pounds and lay them on the table before Mrs Birdsong.

The landlady continued going through the rules. "No male visitors, at any time, anywhere in this house. I don't want to hear how he's your granddad, brother, or priest."

"Yes, Ma'am," Jean murmured. Hopefully she would find all the information within a day or two, and wouldn't need to smuggle Lucien into her room.

"You'll wash out the bath after using it. No hair left in the drain, or soap ring on the enamel."

"I keep a very clean house," Jean said truthfully.

"Will you be seeking work?" Mrs Birdsong's gaze flitted to the pound notes and coins still on the table. Jean had made sure to bring along worn banknotes and coins, not the crisp and shiny ones issued to Lucien at the bank when they'd arrived in London.

"I have savings that should keep me for a while," Jean said easily.

"When you do, if you get a late shift, you'll have to pay extra for a key. Front door is locked at eleven, and back door at six. You ring the bell for entry otherwise. Either me or my girl are here at all times." Her sharp dark eyes, so like a bird, showed that she'd keep watch like a curious crow.

Jean stored this information away. Teresa's disguise made it possible for her to move unnoticed through the Poplar streets, but how had she got in and out of this building? Had there been a key with her body? If there was, if would lead Constable Noakes to this boarding house sooner rather than later. She must hurry.

"I understand," she murmured. "That will make me feel very safe."

Unbending a bit, Mrs Birdsong gave a regal nod. "Right then." After scooping the money off the table, she rose. "I shall show you the room."

Jean hefted her suitcase, and followed in the great ship's wake.

The room was on the second floor, tucked under the eaves. It had a musty odour that Jean was finally becoming used to. The floorboards creaked. There was a narrow, sagging single bed, a bedside table with chipped veneer, and the small window had fogged glass.

"It's perfect," Jean enthused.

Mrs Birdsong made a noise in the back of her throat. Smoothing her raw-skinned hands down her full skirt, she told Jean, "Dinner is served at noon for five shillings. Tea and breakfast come with the room. The kettle is always on for a cuppa." She drew herself up. "Five cup limit on the day."

"Of course," Jean said, fighting a smile. "I'll have dinner today, thank you," she added, digging out the payment. She needed to ingratiate herself with the other boarders as soon as possible.

The coins disappeared into Mrs Birdsong's pocket. "Bath's at the end of the hall. Gas meter takes shilling coins."

Jean raised her eyebrows. These cheap lodgings were adding up. "Good to know," was all she said though.

She needed to begin her search for clues. "Thank you," she said pointedly, ushering Mrs Birdsong out of the room.

As soon as her landlady was gone, she propped the rickety straight-backed chair under the doorknob, just in case Mrs Birdsong liked to make unannounced entrances.

Methodically, she began going through the room's sparse furniture, including turning the mattress to look for slits in the stained canvas where Teresa could have hidden something in the ticking. She also pulled out the drawers from the bureau and checked their undersides for taped envelopes. The small mirror was nailed to the wall, so nothing could be hidden behind it. With a sigh, Jean sat on the bed. The room's contents had been ruthlessly cleared out. Where had Teresa's things gone?

* * *

Bathed and dressed, Lucien made his way downstairs. After some tea and any crumpets which may have missed Sister Monica Joan's attention, he'd go to Dick Smith's house. The police should be finished with their interview. Normally, he would take part in the interrogation, but hadn't been invited today. DI Flowers had claimed they were in this case together, but it would appear not. Jean had put herself in harm's way, and Lucien wanted to solve the murder before anything happened. His mind drifted to other matters; they could return to their honeymoon—

"Dr Blake, may I see you?"

He turned. Sister Julienne stood outside her office, her arm beckoning the way into the room. Unsuspecting, he accepted her invitation.

* * *

After refreshing her makeup, Jean made her way down the hall, checking names tacked to the doors. She must befriend those nearest Teresa's room and see if they knew anything.

Years of service gave her the ability to move silently down the stairs and towards the front room where lunch would be served. She noted that the kitchen with the back door was right next to the stairwell. Convenient for returning late at night.

Rather than enter the dining room, Jean oozed back against the wall and hid in the shadow. She heard the clank of cups on saucers. Others were there first, and would likely speak more freely without the new girl among them.

Several women were chatting rapidly, as though trying to get everything out before her arrival.

"Where could Susan have gone?"

"I don't care," growled a deep yet still female voice, "I'm glad she's gone."

"Oh, now, Caroline."

"She took my Harry—" protested the deep voice.

"Lucy says this new lodger is Susan's friend," said a new voice, one of those venomous tones that Jean knew well from church. The sort of woman who loved to stoke the fires.

Deep voice took the bait. "Now that the whore is gone, I'll get my Harry back. Her friend had better steer clear, or perhaps she'll disappear too!"

~ end Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

Sister Julienne reminded Lucien of Nell Clasby. There was that achingly familiar stillness, the quiet melodious voice, and under it all, steel.

"Doctor Blake, we appreciate your wife's help at Nonnatus House and the care you've given our patients-"

He smiled.

"But-" She put her hands palms down on her desktop. "Word of your other activities has come to my attention."

His smile faltered.

"I am frankly disturbed and concerned."

"There's nothing for you to worry about-"

"That would be for me to decide. The sisters and nurses within these walls are my responsibility. I will not have them used for some game that you're playing."

"I can assure you, Sister, this is not a game."

She cocked her head and looked Lucien over. Since entering the religious life, her time with men was limited to caring for their bodies. They had all become rather the same; a collection of body parts. Lucien Blake was a different sort of man from any she'd ever met. He was a danger; God told her this. Not a brutish violence like a drunken docker, but something insidious that lurked in the shadows.

She kept her voice steady despite her thudding heart. "What is it then?"

"I really can't say." The emptiness in his gaze gave her anger as hot as she'd not felt in a very long time. She cleared her throat.

"I think it is best that you leave. Mrs Blake is gone, and you should go as well."

"Mrs Blake has just popped down to Surrey to visit her cousin for a day or so-"

"Hasn't anyone told you that lying to a nun isn't good form?"

He flashed those dimples of his.

"As is trying to flirt with one," she said dryly.

He looked properly chastised and she watched him thinking furiously. She decided to go on without him.

"Sister Winifred has told me what you have been doing. That you are involved in the murder somehow, and have pulled her into it-"

He held up his hand. It was large, and the palm was like a stab of white light in the dim room.

"I can assure you, we're simply investigating the murder of Teresa Smith. It's important to be discreet-"

"You're working with the police?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking."

She pursed her mouth.

"But you may confirm with Constable Noakes that we're assisting the authorities with their investigation," he said craftily.

She locked gazes with him. He only gave her a bland half-smile. She picked up the phone and dialled the station. After a brief exchange with Peter, she hung up. Lucien raised his eyebrows.

He went on as though she hadn't made the call: "I will assure you that I'm doing everything I can to protect Nonnatus House and its inhabitants."

"It's how you're going about it that concerns me. Asking a nun to take the role of a murdered woman. Dressing your wife as a...brazen woman...and go goodness knows where-"

"Jean is perfectly safe." He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself more than her.

* * *

Over the rim of her teacup, Jean watched the other ladies at the table. The one named Caroline was taller than Jean, but even thinner, making her deep voice incongruous. She was very pale; ash hair, white eyelashes, eyes as light as to appear transparent. Her wide mouth was in a harsh line as she glared at Jean.

Blinking innocently, Jean purposely turned and engaged the nervy little plump woman to her right. "Angie, have you lived here long?"

"About three years," Angle replied with a shy smile.

"Oh my. I don't expect to be here that long. I'm a rolling stone, like Susan."

"Hardly," the sharp-toned woman said. She'd introduced herself as Marian Templeton. Mrs, she'd been sure to note, and underlined the word 'widow.' She cut her eyes at Caroline. "Susan was here four years."

Caroline tightened her big knuckled fingers on her teacup handle until Jean worried she'd break it.

"Perhaps she was happy to be home," suggested Jean. "I certainly am."

"Where have you been?" asked Marian, her hooded dark eyes watching Jean intently.

"Oh, all abouts," Jean said, helping herself to a slice of ham. "I'm back from Columbo this time." This had been one of the ports of their ship, and she should be able to reasonably talk about current conditions.

"What would a proper white lady be doing there?" asked Marian with an outraged expression.

"I worked for a doctor." Jean had decided to stay as close to the truth as possible so not to trip up on details. "Reception and the like." She let 'like' drift off so the women could assume what they surely would. "He married, and it was time for me to move on," she choked out, remembering her fear when Joy came into Lucien's life. Only to feel even more loss and conflict when Mei Lin appeared.

When all the women tutted and exchanged knowing looks, she saw how successful her performance was. She'd read with interest about Method Acting, but this was her first opportunity to incorporate her own experiences into her acting. Her despair was replaced with triumph. This was working.

By the end of the meal, she had learned that none of the women worked, but had tenuous incomes which kept them in the rundown but respectable lodging. Angie played bridge for pennies a point at games around the district, Marian had her husband's limited pension from being a bus conductor, and Caroline...well, Caroline didn't say specifically. She eventually checked the wall clock and announce that she must get ready to go out.

That left Angie and Marian dawdling over their tea, with Mrs Birdsong coming through to look down her nose at them and straighten forks on unoccupied tables. Her girl turned out to not be a daughter, but a thick-bodied teenager named Dora who did the cleanup.

Jean waited until they were gone, and poured out another cup for the other two lodgers, offering to pay. Both accepted gratefully. Every penny counted in their situation.

"Susan never was one to be tied down," Jean said, "but her disappearance does vex me. Did she say anything that would give you an idea of where she would go?"

Angie and Marian exchanged guarded looks.

"I couldn't say," Marian confessed. "Susan wasn't one for chit-chat in the parlour." Her irritation was obvious.

Jean noted that Angie showed no such discontent, but didn't speak up, only shrugged.

"So she just packed up and went?"

Jean had seen Angie's name card on the room next to Susan's, but the woman didn't reply. It was Marian who said, "No, she had lunch with us as usual three days ago, then wasn't there for breakfast, nor for another day." She turned to her fellow lodger. "I think it was you, Angie, who asked Mrs Birdsong if she'd told her anything."

"She said Susan had given notice and left."

This was very interesting. There was no way that Teresa could have given notice. Someone here was lying.

"Why don't we move into the parlour so Dora can clear our table?" Jean suggested as she rose from the table. Blushing at the attention and burbling, Angie joined her.

* * *

From the street corner, Lucien watched the Smith house. Eventually a police car pulled up and Dick Smith got out with a woman dressed in black and whose face, even from the distance, looked like thunder. As the car drove off, Dick tried to lead her into the house, but she yanked her arm from his grip and stormed away down the pavement, her heels clattering in fury.

Lucien hastened across the street when he was sure she wasn't coming back.

"Dick," he called out before his prey could close the front door.

Dick Smith held the door open for Lucien and welcomed him in. Brushing his high shiny forehead with a shaking hand, he offered tea, and Lucien accepted.

"We can sit in the kitchen," Lucien offered, hoping to put Dick at ease.

But when they got to the room, it was so small and cramped that Lucien was sure he could touch both walls if he stretched out his arms. Nonetheless, he filled the kettle from the tap when Dick glumly got a box of Garibaldi biscuits from the cupboard and cups and saucers.

"The coppers worked you over pretty well?" Lucien asked.

"Bloody hell," moaned Dick. "Me wife insisted on going to the station. They questioned her too," he added indignantly.

"It's just a matter of routine," Lucien said soothingly.

"It pissed her off proper," said Dick. "Don't like it when she's worked up."

"So she knows about Teresa now?"

"The police tiptoed around it. Told her that I was the last one seen with a murdered woman, and could she verify when I got home and such."

"And left you to explain why you were with her?"

Dick's shoulders slumped. "Yes."

The kettle screamed, making both men jump. Dick filled the pot and brought it to the table to brew.

"I told her that this nun had caught me in the street, asked for my help, seemed a bit off and I was worried to leave her-" He banged clenched fists against his skull. "Lies, lies, lies! So many lies!"

"Speaking of which," Lucien said carefully, "Who's Roger?"

"My son?"

"I don't think he's your son, actually." Lucien poured out tea for both of them.

Dick released a long breath. "No. But there's nothing dodgy about it. I've been calling him my son for so long that I've even forgotten he's not," he said ruefully.

"He was in the camp?" guessed Lucien.

"Yes. His father was killed in the first few weeks. Had a temper, he did, and wouldn't follow the Japs' orders."

Lucien shook his head. "Wouldn't bow?"

"Not likely!" Dick's eyelid twitched. "They chopped off his head in front of us."

Lucien mirrored that nervous tic, his lips tightening. It never failed to depress him that no matter how many years had passed, and how happy his life was now, it only took Dick's words to take Lucien right back to the camp.

The heat. The sweat running down his protruding spine and pooling at the base. The chill goosebumping his hot skin. The utter terror in the eyes of the man standing bound before the officer in his starched uniform, his samurai sword glistening in the sun. The whistle of the blade. The thud of sharp metal against human flesh and bone. The stench of fresh blood. The red coil in the sand, a vicious snake coming for Lucien, who was frozen in place as a coward held in the cobra's gaze-

Lucien gulped the tea, welcoming the burn on his throat.

"Roger's like his father, unfortunately. The temper on that boy..." Dick said gloomily.

"You took him under your wing?" Lucien was speaking, but his voice sounded far away, another man questioning a suspect.

"Yes. Gave me some purpose, you know?"

"I do. I was a doctor in my camp." For what it was worth. For every man he saved, hundreds died. The biscuit was like sawdust in his mouth.

"When the war was over, I thought Teresa and Susan were dead. I was being demobbed back to London, I couldn't leave him behind, you know? His mum was dead too, there was no family here at home-"

"I understand. No paperwork, no passports, you told authorities he was your son, and he was."

Dick nodded, but he was obviously thinking of something else.

"But Teresa wasn't dead," Lucien said quietly, nudging Dick back to the murder.

"No."

"By the time you found out, you'd already created a new life here in London, built out of half-truths. You didn't tell Nancy much about the past, Roger and you kept the truth from her. And now, it's all crumbling..."

Dick looked around the kitchen. "Damn, I could use something stronger."

Grateful for the opening, Lucien pulled out his flask and topped off their teacups.

"When your wife turned up, why didn't you just explain to Nancy?"

Cradling his head in his palm, Dick thought for a long minute. "I can't really say. Each woman was a wonderful wife in her own way. I couldn't hurt either one."

Lucien's temper flared. He gulped tea to stifle his reaction.

"Truth is, this is Nancy's house. Her first husband was killed in the Blitz. They never had the kids she wanted, and I suppose I was a ready made replacement. I don't make waves, and I came with a boy. She and Roger are very close." He turned his cup slowly on the saucer. "In some ways, I think she loves him more than me."

"And Teresa?"

"She's always been exciting and unpredictable-"

Lucien raised his eyebrows and smirked. Without Jean there, perhaps he could have a man to man chat with Dick. "I'm sure..." he said leadingly.

Dick returned the grin, but his face went red. "Nancy is not interested in that sort of thing-"

Knowing he should use a gentler touch, nonetheless Lucien couldn't stop himself from saying, "Sex, in other words."

"Well...yes." Then Dick said exactly the wrong thing. "I had one perfect wife with two women. They were both happy with things the way they were-"

Lucien leapt up from the table. "Bullshit, Dick. _You_ were happy. You had the best of all worlds. Your naughty nun in the back alley, a respectable woman who put a roof over your head and kept a clean house..." He couldn't stop ranting, even as he knew this was blowing the interview. "You're a bloody coward, that's what you are."

Dick shrank back in his chair but Lucien couldn't stop. "Pick one! Just one! And be a man for her, you right bastard!"

"I didn't want to hurt-"

"But you are. Every damn day you were hurting them. You think Nancy didn't know? Women know." He was shaking with fury. "Perhaps Teresa was afraid to give you any ultimatums. You'd toss her over and without that ten bob you gave her for every fuck."

"You'd better leave," Dick whispered.

His head thumping, Lucien turned on his heel and stormed out. Once on the pavement, he rapidly walked down the street with no direction in mind.

Mei Lin's dark dressing gown slipping free of her naked shoulders, that familiar scent of her arousal swarming up to his nose, the glow of her warm skin, the pure, visceral memory of sex, the need he'd ratcheted down for years suddenly thundering in his groin, filling his heart with self-loathing and anger-

The scars. He would have easily taken the beatings for her, doubled his own scars but seeing hers had been repellent. Could feel the lashes on his back, the burn of his flesh slicing open. And knew he could never make love to Mei Lin again, feel those scars with every touch, because he was a bloody coward. He fought to forget every day, no matter how difficult, and needed Jean's clear skin if he had any hope that would happen.

He had to slip into an alley to retch.

* * *

Dinner time at the Birdsong Lodge meant the residents either went out to dine, or made do with tea. Choosing not to go out, Jean chatted with Angie while they practised bridge hands. She confirmed that Angie had seen Teresa leave for dinner but she hadn't returned.

"She does that often...did it often."

"So she had the door key?"

"No..." Angie shuffled the stack of cards nervously.

"Alright," Jean said slowly, sensing not to push. "But you didn't hear Teresa pack and go?"

"No, she just didn't come back that day."

"So where did all her things go?"

"Things?"

"In her room," Jean pointed out patiently. "She must have had clothes, books, mementos."

"She really wasn't one for things. She only had a few clothes."

"But they're gone. That room is perfectly clean. So where are her things?"

Her mouth a comical O, Angie looked puzzled. "I couldn't say."

Teresa's possessions had to be somewhere. Which was why, with Mrs Birdsong and Dora safely dining in the kitchen, Jean was creeping down the first floor corridor toward their rooms. At Mrs Birdsong's door, she hovered, listening carefully for footfall on the stairs, or the creak of another door opening. Finally she summoned her courage, and tried her own room key in the lock. She was guessing that Mrs Birdsong wouldn't bother to key all the different locks. The latch clicked open. When the door swung open, Jean had one more moment of uncertainty, and then she stepped in.

~ end Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

Thrill and terror swirled in Jean's stomach as she crept into the dimly lit sitting room of Mrs Birdsong's suite. She located one cupboard that she quickly checked, her hearing alert all the time for footfall in the corridor outside, but the cupboard only held winter coats and wellington boots. Inside a heavy walnut sideboard, its veneer chipped and warped, she found a jumble of cardboard boxes held shut with old yellowed sellotape, obviously not opened for years.

Next she cracked open the bedroom door and peered inside. The bedside lamp had been left on, giving her just enough light to quickly search the two cupboards. Nothing but drab dresses that smelled of stale rose water. Frustrated, she stood in the middle of room, arms folded, trying to decide what to do next.

Jean heard the outer door to the suite open. Frantic, she glanced around for a place to hide. In the sitting room, Mrs Birdsong was giving instructions to Dora for the next day's duties in her striking tones.

The bed...As the bedroom door opened, Mrs Birdsong saying, "I'll see you in the morning," over her shoulder, Jean went to the floor and slipped under the bed.

She had to hold her breath and remain still so as not to reveal herself. There were boxes under the bed, keeping her from crawling further in. She had to pray that Mrs Birdsong would not notice the bulge in the valance. She heard the woman thumping around the room, removing her dress and peeling down her foundation garment with a long groan of relief. Sitting on the edge of the bed until the mattress pressed into Jean's face, she rolled off her thick support stockings. The smell of her bared feet made Jean gag.

Moving to her dressing table, Mrs Birdsong sat heavily and wiped cold cream on her face. Jean was able to breathe again, but she was also furiously writing a script in her head for if she was discovered. That she was a common thief, but would leave with no damage done...Dear Lord, what if Mrs Birdsong called the police? Constable Noakes, finding her here, like this!

The stool creaked as Mrs Birdsong rose. Jean dared to peek out. The other woman went in the en suite and Jean heard water running. This was her chance. She wiggled out, but her skirt stuck on one of the boxes. Tugging frantically...the water stopped...the toilet flushed...she either tore her skirt, or—

The door opened. She slid back under the bed and held her breath. The mattress creaked under Mrs Birdsong's weight, now pressing the full length of Jean's body. After a few dignified belches, the landlady's breathing slowed. Jean tried to free her skirt. The fabric was stuck securely...she carefully explored. It wasn't a box after all, but a suitcase, and her skirt was snared in the latch. It wasn't coming loose. With a sigh, Jean settled back to wait for Mrs Birdsong to sleep deeply.

In a few minutes, Mrs Birdsong started to snore. Jean shimmied from under the bed, carefully dragged the suitcase behind her. Crouching by the bed, she waited, heart in throat, to see if Mrs Birdsong awoke. When the snoring continued, she stood, holding the suitcase, feeling slightly ridiculous with her skirt hitched up. As quietly as possible, she tiptoed to the door. She turned the knob slowly, wincing at what seemed to be the incredibly loud squeak of the latch, then the creaking of the hinges as she opened it.

A lamp was still on in the sitting room. The dim light, bright as the sun, cut into the room and Jean looked at Mrs Birdsong. She grumbled and rolled...Jean held her breath. But then she started to snore again. Jean slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

In the sitting room, she attempted to free the suitcase from her skirt. That's when she saw the initials on the battered leather : TS. Was it Teresa's suitcase? Still listening for any movement from the bedroom, she sat on the settee and eased the case's top open. It was stuffed with crumpled clothing; they hadn't been folded before being shoved in the suitcase. There were a few tattered movie magazines, a hairbrush full of ash-blonde hair, and a pair of felt slippers. Nothing helpful at all. It seemed that Mrs Birdsong had taken anything of value and put it somewhere secure. Jean didn't dare search anymore, but she had to get the case back under the bed.

Taking a deep breath, she stood, hefting the case. Cautious, she opened the door and crept into the bedroom. Mrs Birdsong was sleeping on her side, facing Jean. She tiptoed to the bed and slowly bent over, gently lifted the valance, and slid the case under the mattress.

It stuck on something. Getting on her knees, Jean pushed on it, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Finally the bag was back where she found it. Smiling in triumph, she started to rise when Mrs Birdsong rolled to her stomach and her arm flopped off the bed, slapping Jean's head.

Biting her lip hard to keep from screaming, Jean rolled under the bed just as Mrs Birdsong sputtered, "Wha...what?"

With a groan, the landlady pushed upright and turned on the light. Under the bed, Jean held her breath. Dust tickled her nose treacherously. The mattress creaked and pushed down on her chest as Mrs Birdsong shifted on the bed, looking around the room. She swung around and her large feet thumped down right beside Jean's head. Stifling a whimper, Jean pulled herself in as far as she could.

Mrs Birdsong stumped over to the door that Jean had left ajar and pulled it shut, locking it securely. "There," she muttered, and returned to the bed. The light snapped off, plunging the room in darkness again.

Jean was trapped.

* * *

Nancy Smith seated a couple at an intimate booth, and made her way back to the Lyons entrance. She only had another hour on her shift, but that would mean going home. The last thing she wanted right now was to see the face of that pathetic twat who called himself her husband—

A man was waiting at the front counter. He watched her approaching with active interest. His gaze was slow and appreciative. He smiled, white teeth flashing out of his sandy beard.

"Table for one, sir?"

"Yes, please."

She started to lead him back through the empty tables. but he said, "May I sit up here?" He was standing at a table by the counter.

"Of course, sir. Your menu."

The man didn't bother to look at the menu and kept smiling at her. "Steak and chips, please."

Nancy was going to tell him she wasn't a waitress and call Betty over for him, but his smile was charming. "Of course."

One other party needed to be seated, and then Nancy found herself at the counter, sorting through the night's dockets. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the customer receive his order and start to eat. He had broad shoulders and tanned skin which made his blue eyes sparkle. From his few words, she knew he was Australian, but not like the rough sorts who came in occasionally from the ships.

He cocked his head and met her gaze. She blushed.

"You're Nancy Smith?"

"Do I know you?" she asked, touching her hair.

"We haven't met. But I was at your house yesterday with the police."

Her answering smile disappeared. The police. To sit in the station, answering invasive questions from that great lump, Peter Noakes. And that common guttersnipe, now calling himself a Detective Inspector with the Met, Whitey Flowers! To be humiliated like this was a disgrace!

The stranger was holding up his hand, as though he could hear all her angry thoughts, and wanted them to stop.

"I understand. This has been a confusing and upsetting experience. I'm not here to make you feel worse."

His voice, although the accent was odd and perhaps a bit common, was warm and deep—very masculine. Dick had a slightly nasal voice that got more so when he was upset, as he'd been as he'd lied about that woman.

"Yes, very upsetting," she said through tight lips.

"I'm Doctor Lucien Blake. I'm assisting the police with their inquiries," he said smoothly.

"The police!"

He made the calming motion again. "I should clarify. I've been following Teresa from the Orient." He sneered. "She's exhibited a certain pattern for years."

"I can only imagine," Nancy breathed furiously.

Blake looked around quickly. No more customers had come in, and George Smothers, the eagle-eyed manager, was in his cramped office with his evening glass of scotch to review the dinner dockets.

Pulling out the other chair at his table, Blake offered her a seat.

Nancy sank to the chair and folded her hands in her lap.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Not this swill."

He grinned and she touched her hair again.

She asked him shrewdly, "What has that whore done that has you tracking her halfway around the world?"

He placed the cutlery on his plate and pushed it aside. Leaning on his elbows, he came closer, those lovely blue eyes examining her face. "She uses people, often painfully. She takes—"

Nancy couldn't control herself. She snorted loudly. "That's certainly true!"

He tipped his head. "You know of other victims?"

Twisting her fingers as she'd like to wring that woman's neck, she looked at Blake imploringly. Could she trust him?

Again he read her mind. "You can trust me, Nancy. I'm only helping the police as much as it serves my purposes." His smile became crafty, and she did feel she could trust him.

"Me," she said bitterly.

His brow furrowed. "You're a victim."

"Yes."

"You knew about her and Dick." It wasn't a question.

Nancy nodded curtly, unable to speak.

He didn't press. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a silver cigarette case. "Smoke?" he offered.

"I don't..." She reached for one anyway. He leaned forward to light it with a gold lighter and she could smell his clean skin and tweed jacket. She gave a little cough as she exhaled smoke.

He blew his smoke away from her and waited for her to speak.

"You're a real doctor?" she asked.

He chuckled. "Yes, general practitioner and surgeon."

She turned the cigarette in her fingers and couldn't look at him. "I have some lady troubles, you know? In my downbelows." She flushed scarlet.

He made an encouraging sound in his throat.

"I would have understood if Dick had gone to one of those trollops down by the docks. That's what they're for, after all."

"But Teresa was different."

"She came here at the end of my shift, like you. Told me Dick would leave me for her." She inhaled deeply and didn't cough this time.

"I'm so sorry," he said gently. "That must have been painful."

"No, not at all. It made me angry."

"Did she ask for money?" he suggested.

Before she could respond, Mr Smothers appeared. "Mrs Smith, may I speak to you please?" he asked, furious.

Nancy grubbed out her cigarette and rose. "Of course, Mr Smothers—"

"I apologise, sir," Blake said to the manager. "I'm afraid I was taking advantage of Mrs Smith's kindness. I've been chatting her ear off." He took out his wallet and pulled out a ten pound note. He stood and dropped the money on the table. "I'll say good night then, Mrs Smith."

She watched him go, ignoring Mr Smothers' fretful nattering.

* * *

Mrs Birdsong was finally snoring again. While Jean had been waiting, she discovered the other boxes under the bed were also suitcases. How many women had disappeared without leaving a forwarding address? But she couldn't search the others as well.

She slid from under the bed, and rolled stiffly onto her knees. Feeling utterly ridiculous, she crawled to the door on all fours. Stifling a groan, she pulled herself upright with the doorknob, and after some frantic fumbling, got the lock to unlatch.

Watching Mrs Birdsong the whole time, she backed through the door. Once out of the suite, Jean hurried down the corridor as light-footed as she could manage. But when she mounted the stairs, her escape to her room was blocked by Caroline. The other boarder was leaning heavily on the bannister, pulling herself upward hand over hand.

"Caroline, can I help you?" Jean asked, hoping the other woman wouldn't notice her hair was full of spiderwebs and her clothes were covered with dust.

Caroline turned. She smelled of drink and her thick makeup was smeared in a frightening mask.

"Have you been hurt?" Jean said urgently.

Caroline laughed bitterly. "Yes, Susan."

"Let's get you to your room." Jean put her arm around Caroline's middle and supported her.

But at the landing, Caroline pulled away. "You're a friend of that bitch. Get off."

"Not really," Jean said, "Teresa stole a man I loved too." She was just making up details now, and realised she needed to keep track of them all.

"I don't love him," Caroline spit out. "Harry's comfortable. Easy. Slips it in, two or three jabs, and done."

Jean held back her discomfort.

Unheeding, Caroline continued, "I've had to go back to the streets! At my age!"

Only then did Jean notice the smell of stale sex wafting off Caroline.

"That bitch took him because she wanted it easy. She could have had any man. Why did she take mine?"

"I'm so sorry," murmured Jean.

"Does me no good." Caroline staggered slightly and leaned on the wall. "Harry likes to cuddle though. When he's done. 'spose I miss that."

Jean urgently wanted to be with Lucien. She bit her lower lip to hold back tears. She was suddenly aware how utterly alone he must have felt when he did this sort of work.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"Was your doctor good in bed?"

"He's a wonderful lover," Jean said easily.

"Bet you could have killed her."

Jean pressed her hands to her mouth. "Who?"

"That bitch who took him away."

Unable to answer, Jean mounted the stairs. "Goodnight, Caroline. I hope you feel better in the morning."

Back in her room, Jean slipped out of her soiled clothes and into her dressing gown. After washing dust and tears from her face, she felt a bit better. She wasn't tired though. Going through her suitcase, she found the Book of Common Prayer that she'd brought from Nonnatus House. Crawling into the sagging narrow bed, she started to read. She calmed.

* * *

The halls of Nonnatus House were dark and still. When the screams started, they first shattered the quiet, then pounded against the dark wood walls like thunder. It was a man's voice, deep and anguished. For the nurses and nuns rushing toward the sound, they had no thoughts of danger or their own safety. Only that a man was in pain, and needed them.

~ end Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

All he wanted to do was sleep. But they wouldn't allow him. Squat powerful dogs surrounding his camp bed growling in deep voices. No sleep, never sleep. Sharp, harsh notes in his ears. Commands he cannot ignore. Dragging from his slumber. Limbs so heavy, washed with sweat. The smell of pain, death, and rot.

Orders pushing him forward, out of the dark tent, into a blazing sun, so bright he couldn't open his eyes. Burning his skin until blisters boiled across his shoulders and down his spine. He fell in step, man behind man behind man, all heads bowed. They knew what was coming. Time for a discipline session. Someone had to pay for their disobedience, their constant thieving and escape attempts.

Perhaps it would be his turn. He felt it had to be. Time and time again, he was brought to the yard and yet someone else was chosen for punishment or death.

Shame. The overwhelming shame at wanting to be picked. To feel the lash, the draining of his life, finally true deep sleep. Someone else was already tied to the post though, naked but for a cloak of red blood and black flies.

He had to try to save this soul. Rushing forward, ignoring the barking at his heels, he tugged the body loose and turned it. The lifeless face, vacant eyes, dried tongue. He knew her.

"Jean!" He started screaming and couldn't stop.

He had to find her. Thrashing free of his binds, he fled. He was in blackness, but a crack of light around the door showed him an escape. He tore at the door, his breath coming in great huffs. When he finally wrenched it open, and barrelled out, he ran into grasping hands, the barking again, a higher note-birds, pecking at him, wanting to feed on his flesh.

"Doctor Blake!" roared in his ear and he fell. Light, boundless, weightless, he fell.

Sister Evangelina sagged under this mass of man. His gasping mouth pressed to her bare neck, startling her. She tried to support him, but got no purchase on his sweaty arms. Bending under the weight, she felt her back twinging in pain. Then hands reached in, and with a chorus of female groans, he was lifted off her. In the dimness, she saw a great need in his gaze. She turned away; she'd seen it many times over the years, a man's need for a missing mother, something she could never give him.

"Bring him to my room," Mattie said. No, not back to his room, with the sweat-drenched bedclothes flung off. Sister Mary Cynthia moved into the room to change the sheets and make the bed up again.

"Should we ring up his wife?" asked Barbara, huffing under the weight of his left arm. Lucien was walking on his own, but he was staggering as though drunk.

Patsy, under his other arm, felt him tense at the mention of Jean. "No, he just needs to rest."

She was surprised to see Trixie staying back in the doorway to their room, clutching her dressing gown to her throat. Of all the expressions her face could hold, the distance Patsy saw there was the last thing she expected.

In Mattie's room, they led Lucien to a chair before the gas heater. Mattie immediately lit it and turned the flames up high.

He looked up at the circle of concerned faces gathered around him. When he said, "Thank you ever so much. Sorry to be a bother," they could see he was coming back to his body. Turning his shoulder to the fire, he signalled the women that he didn't want company.

Mattie shepherded them out, thanking everyone quietly in the hallway. "He has night terrors sometimes. From the war," she explained. Sister Cynthia brought her Lucien's dressing gown. He'd torn off his pyjama top at some point, and would surely be chilled now.

Trixie retreated into her room. The other women lingered, still unsure. Sister Evangelina adjusted her white cap and winced in pain.

"Did he hurt you?" asked Sister Julienne.

Squaring her shoulders, Sister Evangelina shook her head. "Of course not." She stomped off to her room.

Sister Julienne watched her go, surprised to have seen concern on Sister Evangelina's face when she'd looked at Mattie's closed bedroom door. With her own pang of worry, she decided to defer to Mattie's professionalism and friendship with Dr Blake, and made her good nights to the other women.

Once everyone drifted off, Mattie rejoined Lucien in her room. His head jerked up as soon as she closed the door behind her quietly.

"Do you have a spot of something?" he asked, his smile shaking.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

His eyes went dark. He turned to the fire, his hunched back putting off anger and resentment. Mattie chose to ignore this and draped the dressing gown over his bare shoulders. She pulled a chair close to him and took his hand. It was trembling.

"Is this the first dream you've had since marrying?"

He nodded sharply. "I don't want to worry Jean."

"She'll always worry about you," Mattie said quietly. "But I don't think it's something you can control."

His brow furrowed in anger, and she wasn't sure if it was at her, or himself. She suspected the latter.

"I know Jean wants to help you, but I don't think this is something she can fix. Or the bottle."

He made an expressive flicking motion with his free hand but didn't speak.

She tipped her head. "Have you considered talking to someone?"

"Best to leave it in the past," he grumbled.

"How well is that working?"

"It's better," he insisted.

She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Did Jean ever tell you about my drawings?"

"You draw?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a quick smile. "Yes. Not art like my mother. Just illustrations, really. But there was a time when all I could do was draw the pictures in my mind." He tapped his temple. "They were so strong."

"Where are they now?"

"I've put them away." His lips were a thin line. "I should burn them. End that chapter."

She made an involuntary movement. "Don't," she gasped. "I know it must hurt to look at them, but they're history. It can't be forgotten."

He leapt to his feet. "But I must forget!" He loomed over Mattie. "For Jean."

She saw that it was pointless to argue with him on this. But she had to say, "You should talk to someone."

He tried charm. "I'm talking to you," he said with a cheeky grin.

"Not someone who loves you. Not me. Not Jean."

His eyes narrowed. "I should get back to bed. Exhausted."

"Of course," she said solicitously. When he leaned in to kiss her cheek, she cradled his jaw for just a moment, hoping she could transmit all her concern and frustration in those few seconds.

He closed the door quietly as he left.

* * *

In their room, Patsy and Trixie couldn't settle. Patsy poured out a glass of whisky and held up the bottle to Trixie in a silent suggestion.

Irritated, Trixie shook her head. She tossed out one of her excuses that she now just said automatically when offered alcohol. "Not now, darling. Much too late. I'll have frightful bags under my eyes as it is." She took a turn about the room. "Really, I think that man should leave. He's so disruptive."

Sitting on the end of her bed cross-legged, Patsy sipped her drink and watched her friend with puzzlement. "He needs our help," she said evenly. She didn't dare share the real reason that Dr Blake was at Nonnatus House.

"Do you ever wonder why a girl like me lives with a bunch of nuns?"

Patsy blinked. She had, but something had always kept her from asking.

"Peace. Blessed, quiet, peace," Trixie hissed. "Men have their place, of course, but they can be rather loud and...annoying," she finished lamely.

"I shan't argue with that," Patsy said dryly, and drained her glass.

Getting into bed, Trixie leaned on her headboard and stared at the ceiling. "I know I sound a frightful cow, but I spent too many years hearing rows just like that. Sleepless nights...I thought it was all behind me, but here it is."

Closing her eyes, Patsy revisited the nights in the camp filled with endless moans, not just of physical pain, but emotional agony. "Yes," she said.

"Jean seems like a lovely woman but does she know what she's let herself in for?" Trixie said rhetorically.

Patsy stood and took her glass to the drinks tray, but didn't get another. She came back to her bed and pointed out, "Jean seems very strong."

"She'll need to be," Trixie said with finality and snapped off her bedside light.

In the dimness, Patsy found her way to her bed, and crawled under the covers, suddenly exhausted.

* * *

Despite her late night, Jean woke early. Alone in the chilly, dank room, she knelt by the bed and prayed, her knees painful on the bare floor. Even as the familiar words flowed through her mind, in a corner of her skull sat the frustration at last night. All that danger of discovery, and she'd come away with nothing new. Squeezing her eyes closed, she forced her focus back to her prayers.

When she went to rise, the floorboard under her knee bent and lifted a bit. She scrambled up but the splintered wood snagged her dressing gown. Sighing at finding herself stuck again, she worked the fabric loose, and the board shifted. She noticed a void under it. Prying the board free, she found a small black book underneath.

Even though she knew she was alone, Jean still looked around the room before taking the book to the small dusty window and examining it in the grey dawn. It was a ledger, with initials, dates, and totals. A blackmailer's records. Her face splitting with a grin, Jean whirled around. She'd dress and get this to Lucien as soon as possible.

* * *

The breakfast table at Nonnatus House was quiet and tense, each woman lost in her thoughts. Lucien wasn't present, but he was on all their minds. They were still shaken, and some, like Patsy and Trixie, had dark shadows under their eyes. The two women hadn't slept again after being woken. Only Sister Monica Joan tucked into her food heartily and seemed unfazed. She had watched the events from the safety of her doorway.

Mrs Turner bustled in, offering cheerful greetings but quickly saw the mood was low. "What's the matter?" she asked.

No one quite knew where to begin. Sister Monica Joan spoke up. "A storm burst over our house in the night, and rained down tears and peals of thunder."

Shelagh was confused. Just then Jean arrived, her face bright with her excitement. Mattie quickly rose from the table, and pulled her friend aside.

"Lucien didn't have a good night," she explained, her voice low.

Jean shucked her gloves, coat and hat. "Where is he?"

"Still in your room, I think."

Jean hurried up the stairs, her heart in her throat. She knocked quietly on the door, and when she got no reply, she opened it and slipped in.

The room was so still and quiet, she thought Lucien wasn't there. Then she saw the hunch of his shoulder under the covers and his tousled head on the pillow.

"Lucien," she called out gently. He didn't move.

She came around the bed and sat on the edge next to him. His eyes were open but he seemed far away. Although she was frightened, she just gently stroked his cheek and jaw, travelling between the smooth skin and prickly beard. Sweeping her touch, her fingertips stroked his ear and her thumb circled the hollow of his temple.

"Jean." He spoke so softly it was like a thunder clap.

"I'm here, my love." She pressed a kiss to his neck.

He rolled onto his back. "You are," he said with wonder. Then flung a heavy arm over his eyes. "You've heard I made a bloody row last night?"

"Mattie didn't say. She just said it was a rough night, and you needed me."

At the word need, his arm came down and his eyes went bright. Now his focus was fully on her. In an instant, she was suffused with desire.

It had been like this from their wedding night —no, before. As their wedding reception was winding down, and they'd wandered out onto the club's balcony for air. Dusk was just a sliver of deep blue on the horizon, a light mist was wetting the streets to shiny black. She'd swayed into his arms, smiling up at him, and that same spark was in his gaze. Yes, there'd been a kiss, but more. He'd surrounded her, wide palms caging her back, thighs bracketing her hips, leaning on the railing so the wind snared her hair and tangled it in his beard. She was caught, she was flying, she was pressed to the pulse in his groin and was suddenly contained of nothing but pure want. It had been lightning-shock and new. She'd thought that she'd awoken when he'd kissed her like this in the kitchen, but this was another, deeper blooming.

"I suppose we should head home," he'd murmured in her ear. The swirl of parting from the reception, the silent drive home, and then it had started.

These past few days without this sensation had been awful. Two weeks, and she never wanted to be apart from him again. Not just his company, but this intense intimacy, this heat under her palm as she smoothed off his pyjama top away from his heaving chest.

"Jean," he said again.

"What?" she challenged him.

His brow furrowed. Reaching up, he brushed her loose curls off her forehead. "I don't like feeling this way."

"Then don't," she said simply.

Lolling his head back, he stared at the ceiling. She drew lazy patterns with her fingertips over his heart. His chest began to rise and fall faster.

He was on her in one powerful movement. Sweeping her up and over him, onto the mattress. Her own breathing caught up with his thudding respiration as she fought out of her clothes with his help. He loomed over her, his elbows on either side of her head. He dipped down again and again for deep kisses, to suckle at her neck, bite her ears with his lips. His bulk blocked out the bright day streaming through the window, a solid tree canopy over her. She grasped at him, squeezing handfuls of rippling muscle, tugging at the hard ridges of his ribs and spine, pinching the roll around his middle. He was alive, in a way she'd never felt before.

Raising his head, he stopped, seemingly battling with some inner torment. She lay there panting, feeling exposed, but not just in her nudity. She studied his expression, fearful at this vulnerability. She'd never seen him like this in bed. Frustrated, angry, fearful. He turned his face into his shoulder. He was the one embarrassed; it wasn't about her.

"Don't —" She gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. "It's fine," she promised. She was a bit afraid at this danger she felt, but also excited. His body quivered with power and she wanted to feel that around her, in her-

He dived in again. There was none of his practised love-making, with the measured caresses and constant evaluation of her reactions. All the times before, he'd play her like a gentle love song on the piano, stroking the keys to coax out the right notes. But not now.

He hefted her thighs in his wide palms, opening and exposing her in a rush of chilled air. Cursing, he realised his bottoms were still caught up on his hips. She yanked them down for him, sinking her teeth into his collarbone. His answering growl reverberated through her body, like she'd pressed a big cat down with a single strong stroke of her hand.

When he thrust into her, there was no grace. She coiled off the mattress to meet the power, welcoming the pressure and edge of pain. He braced on the mattress and glared down at her, that fury exposed and heated. He was running away, but she was still with him.

He filled her in a way he'd never done before, pushing her more open with each stroke. Tears clung to her eyelashes, but she wouldn't shed them and have him think he was hurting her. It was an ecstasy of agony, to have so much and yet needing more with every thrust.

His breathing was ragged and pained. Whatever he was fleeing was close. Turning her nails into his back, she urged him on.

"Lucien, it's alright," she panted. "It's alright."

It was his tears falling. "Yes, yes," she promised him. "It's fine."

Ridiculous thing to say, but it must have been the right two words. His pants became harsher; his pain roiled and rose higher in his chest. Reaching lower, she gripped his arse and held him tight between her legs, forcing his thrusts to shorten and quicken-the sprint. Reaching above her head, he wrapped his hand around the headboard as though needing an anchor. She clung to him in the same way, and watched his shattering, a heavy iron hammer striking a stone and cleaving it into sharp pieces. The anger gone, replaced by such a vulnerability as she'd never seen from him. This was her husband, exposed.

His movements slowed. He clung to the headboard, keeping his weight from toppling over onto her. She smoothed his heated skin, up his chest to his neck with its rougher skin, and stroked her thumbs along his jaw, drawing his mouth down to hers.

Her soft kisses calmed him. He eased out of her, and she released a long sigh of discontent at the sound of wet flesh separating from wet flesh. Tears finally slid from the corners of her eyes. He was gone.

He settled to the bed beside her. When she ran her hand from his shoulder to down his spine, his body felt utterly relaxed and she was grateful, and a bit proud. She'd given him this.

But as she examined his body as she would look over her garden for weeds to pull or flowers to admire, her own limbs was still tingling and sparking, unsatisfied. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, lids half-closed.

"Feel better?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

He chuckled, an embarrassed sound.

"Good." She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

He peeked at her again. "But you..."

She was surprised that he'd retained that awareness. Perhaps she hadn't given him the complete hiding place that she'd thought. She lifted her shoulder in a shrug.

"Hmmm," he murmured. Rolling on his side, he gently brushed her touch away and began to place sweet kisses on her too-hot skin. Under the chin, at the point of the shoulder, at the top of her breast, over her navel. Nowhere particularly erotic and this made her body tremble with frustration.

"Lucien —" There was a whine in her voice. "Don't start anything you can't finish." Only after she said that did she think it sounded like a scold.

He didn't seem offended. "No worries. I'll finish this." The confidence in his words was more arousing than anything he'd done to her yet.

Then he rolled on his back, and she thought he was going to go to sleep anyway. Before her disappointment could be realised, he reached for her, leading her to mount his torso. Bringing her breast to his mouth, he nuzzled and stroked the tender skin with his lips and beard.

He'd been nearly silent but she had to fight to keep her moans low. As though she'd challenged him with her control, he moved to her nipple, tugging it, then salving the pain with his warm tongue.

She rocked against his chest, only to wince at the sting. In the moment, his passion had been exciting and stimulating, but now the tender tissues were protesting.

He noticed. "I'm a brute," he murmured, snuggling his face between her breasts.

She scrubbed his hair to hear him purr. "It was wonderful," she confessed, going a bit pink.

"Not quite wonderful enough," he noted, returning to the topic at hand. "Let the doctor take care of this."

"Oh, Lucien," she scolded, flushing hotter.

He cupped her hips and guided her higher to straddle his head. Confused at first, she gripped the headboard for balance. Only then did she notice that he'd removed the crucifix which had hung on the wall. The faded paint had left a dark cross on the wall where the piece had protected it. She looked away quickly when he began kissing the inside of her thighs.

So gentle, so soft, the touch of his lips was almost a dream. Almost. His breaths tickled and caressed her delicate skin. The prickle of his beard stimulated her in another way. She was afraid to lower herself and needed to do so desperately.

Just his fingertips nudged and guided her to his mouth, stroking aside her curls to find his target. Finally his tongue laced among her folds and her gasp sounded loud as a scream in the still room. His lips wrapped around her clitoris and when he tugged at it, his saliva tempering the pain, she had to bite her bicep from crying out. He repeated the pattern, increasing pressure as she became accustomed to it. He tried to slide a finger inside, but she gave a discontented grumble, still sensitive to that invasion. Understanding, he soothed her twitching muscles, smoothing along her flanks, stroking between her cheeks with the lightest of touch.

She had to rest her forehead against the wall, her mouth slack, utterly lost in the sensations. His orgasm had been a thunderclap. Her first one was a heavy wave lifting her, then pressing her hard to the shore.

"Oh, that's...nice," she breathed against the plaster as she cupped Lucien's skull, and gave it an ineffectual squeeze of thanks.

He didn't stop. Wet fingers joined his tongue to rub and caress, harder now that she was swollen as a ripened berry. His exploration found new spots that caused something painful and yet very necessary to build within her. She felt fear at this new sensation. Its exposure would be more than this moment, but would change their lovemaking from now on, just as the emotion she'd seen on his face had done. From the nest of her thighs, he was watching her; he would see. Uncaring, she was clawing at the wall now, her damp palms staining the shadow of the crucifix.

Perhaps she did call out. The rushing blood in her ears deafened her. She was sure that she'd nearly suffocated Lucien as she rode out the storm raging through her body. She'd have to apologise later. None of that mattered for this complete, pure joy.

"Oh Lucien." She sank to the bed beside him. "I do love you so."

His laughter was as happy as she felt. "I love you too."

~ end Chapter 13

E/N: I'll be taking a week off for with a family visit, but I'll be back posting on June 9th.


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